ADVENTURES 

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FRIENDSHIP 


DAVID 
GRAYSON 


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THE  IIBRARY  OF  THE 

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ENDOWED  BY  THE 

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This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
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ADVENTURES 
IN   FRIENDSHIP 

By 

DAVID  GRAYSON 

Author  of  "Adventures  in  Contentment" 


Illustrated  by 
THOMAS   FOGARTY 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET  &  DUN 

PUBLISHERS 


AIL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING   THAT  OP  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,  I9IO,  BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHED,  OCTOBER,   iglO 

COPYRIGHT,  I908,  1909,  I910,  BY  THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


1(1  ^ 


CHAPTER 
I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XL 

^7  XII. 

<o  XIII. 

o 


CONTENTS 

An  Adventure  in  Fraternity 

A  Day  of  Pleasant  Bread 

The  Open  Road 

On  Being  Where  You  Belong 

The  Story  of  Anna 

The  Drunkard     . 

An  Old  Maid      . 

A  Roadside  Prophet 

The  Gunsmith     • 

The  Mowing 

An  Old  Man      . 

The  Celebrity 

On  Friendship    . 


PAGE 
I 

43 

57 

73 

95 
117 

131 

147 
171 

193 
201 

223 


\  < 


AN  ADVENTURE  IN  FRATERNITY 


AN  ADVENTURE  IN  FRATERNITY 

THIS,  I  am  firmly  convinced,  is  a  strange 
world,  as  strange  a  one  as  I  was  ever 
in.  Looking  about  me  I  perceive  that  the 
simplest  things  are  the  most  difficult,  the 
plainest  things,  the  darkest,  the  common- 
est things,  the  rarest. 

I  have  had  an  amusing  adventure  —  and 
made  a  friend. 

This  morning  when  I  went  to  town  for 
my  marketing  I  met  a  man  who  was  a  Mason, 
an  Oddfellow  and  an  Elk,  and  who  wore 
the  evidences  of  his  various  memberships 
upon    his    coat.     He    asked    me  what  lodge 


4  ADVENTURES  IN 

I  belonged  to,  and  he  slapped  me  on  the 
back  in  the  heartiest  manner,  as  though 
he  had  known  me  intimately  for  a  long  time. 
(I  may  say,  in  passing,  that  he  was  trying 
to  sell  me  a  new  kind  of  corn-planter.)  I 
could  not  help  feeling  complimented  —  both 
complimented  and  abashed.  For  I  am  not 
a  Mason,  or  an  Oddfellow,  or  an  Elk. 
When  I  told  him  so  he  seemed  much  sur- 
prised   and    disappointed. 

"You  ought  to  belong  to  one  of  our  lodges," 
he  said.  "You'd  be  sure  of  having  loyal 
friends  wherever  you  go." 

He  told  me  all  about  his  grips  and  passes 
and  benefits;  he  told  me  how  much  it  would 
cost  me  to  get  in  and  how  much  more  to 
stay  in  and  how  much  for  a  uniform  (which 
was  not  compulsory).  He  told  me  about 
the  fine  funeral  the  Masons  would  give  me; 
he  said  that  the  Elks  would  care  for  my 
widow  and  children. 

You're  just  the  sort  of  a  man,':  he  said, 
that  we'd  like  to  have  in  our  lodge.     I'd 
enjoy  giving  you  the  grip  of  fellowship.'1 

He  was  a  rotund,  good-humoured  man 
with  a  shining  red  nose  and  a  husky  voice. 
He   grew   so   much   interested   in   telling   me 


FRIENDSHIP  s 

about  his  lodges  that  I  think  (I  think)  he 
forgot  momentarily  that  he  was  selling  corn- 
planters,  which  was   certainly  to  his   credit. 

As  I  drove  homeward  this  afternoon  I 
could  not  help  thinking  of  the  Masons,  the 
Oddfellows  and  the  Elks  —  and  curiously 
not  without  a  sense  of  depression.  I  won- 
dered if  my  friend  of  the  corn-planters  had 
found  the  pearl  of  great  price  that  I  have 
been  looking  for  so  long.  For  is  not  friend- 
liness the  thing  of  all  things  that  is  most 
pleasant  in  this  world?  Sometimes  it  has 
seemed  to  me  that  the  faculty  of  reaching 
out  and  touching  one's  neighbour  where  he 
really  lives  is  the  greatest  of  human  achieve- 
ments. And  it  was  with  an  indescribable 
depression  that  I  wondered  if  these  Masons 
and  Oddfellows  and  Elks  had  in  reality 
caught  the  Elusive  Secret  and  confined  it 
within  the  insurmountable  and  impene- 
trable walls  of  their  mysteries,  secrets,  grips, 
passes,   benefits. 

"It  must,  indeed,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"be  a  precious  sort  of  fraternity  that  they 
choose  to  protect  so  sedulously." 

I  felt  as  though  life  contained  something 
that  I  was  not  permitted  to  live.     I  recalled 


6  ADVENTURES  IN 

how  my  friend  of  the  corn-planters  had 
wished  to  give  me  the  grip  of  the  fellowship 
—  only  he  could  not.  I  was  not  entitled 
to  it.  I  knew  no  grips  or  passes.  I  wore 
no  uniform. 

"It  is  a  complicated  matter,  this  fellow- 
ship," I  said  to  myself. 

So  I  jogged  along  feeling  rather  blue, 
marveling  that  those  things  which  often 
seem  so  simple  should  be  in  reality  so 
difficult. 

But  on  such  an  afternoon  as  this  no  man 
could  possibly  remain  long  depressed.  The 
moment  I  passed  the  straggling  outskirts 
of  the  town  and  came  to  the  open  road,  the 
light  and  glow  of  the  countryside  came  in 
upon  me  with  a  newness  and  sweetness 
impossible  to  describe.  Looking  out  across 
the  wide  fields  I  could  see  the  vivid  green 
of  the  young  wheat  upon  the  brown  soil; 
in  a  distant  high  pasture  the  cows  had  been 
turned  out  to  the  freshening  grass;  a  late 
pool  glistened  in  the  afternoon  sunshine. 
And  the  crows  were  calling,  and  the  robins 
had  begun  to  come:  and  oh,  the  moist, 
cool  freshness  of  the  air!  In  the  highest 
heaven    (never   so   high    as    at   this    time   of 


FRIENDSHIP  7 

the  year)  floated  a  few  gauzy  clouds:  the 
whole  world  was  busy  with  spring! 

I  straightened  up  in  my  buggy  and  drew 
in  a  good  breath.  The  mare,  half  startled, 
pricked  up  her  ears  and  began  to  trot.  She, 
too,  felt  the  spring. 

"Here,"  I  said  aloud,  "is  where  I  belong. 
I  am  native  to  this  place;  of  all  these  things 
I  am  a  part." 

But  presently  —  how  one's  mind  courses 
back,  like  some  keen-scented  hound,  for 
lost  trails  —  I  began  to  think  again  of  my 
friend's  lodges.  And  do  you  know,  I  had 
lost  every  trace  of  depression.  The  whole 
matter  lay  as  clear  in  my  mind,  as  little 
implicated,  as  the  countryside  which  met 
my  eye  so  openly 

"Why!"  I  exclaimed  to  myself,  "I  need 
not  envy  my  friend's  lodges.  I  myself  be- 
long to  the  greatest  of  all  fraternal  orders. 
I  am  a  member  of  the  Universal  Brother- 
hood of  Men." 

It  came  to  me  so  humorously  as  I  sat 
there  in  my  buggy  that  I  could  not  help 
laughing  aloud.  And  I  was  so  deeply  ab- 
sorbed with  the  idea  that  I  did  not  at  first 
see  the  whiskery  old  man  who  was  coming 


8  ADVENTURES  IN 

my  way  in  a  farm  wagon.  He  looked  at 
me  curiously.  As  he  passed,  giving  me  half 
the  road,  I  glanced  up  at  him  and  called  out 
cheerfully: 

"How  are  you,  Brother?" 

You  should  have  seen  him  look  —  and 
look  —  and  look.  After  I  had  passed  I 
glanced  back.  He  had  stopped  his  team, 
turned  half  way  around  in  his  high  seat 
and  was  watching  me  —  for  he  did  not 
understand. 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"  I  am  intoxicated  —  with  the  wine  M 
spring!" 

I  reflected  upon  his  astonishment  when 
I  addressed  him  as  "Brother."  A  strange 
word !  He  did  not  recognize  it.  He  ac- 
tually suspected  that  he  was  not  my 
Brother. 

So  I  jogged  onward  thinking  about  my 
fraternity,  and  I  don't  know  when  I  have 
had  more  joy  of  an  idea.  It  seemed  so 
explanatory! 

"I  am  glad,':  I  said  to  myself,  "that  I 
am  a  Member.  I  am  sure  the  Masons 
have  no  such  benefits  to  offer  in  their  lodges 
as  we  have  in  ours.     And  we  do  not  require 


FRIENDSHIP  9 

money  of  farmers  (who  have  little  to  pay). 
We  will  accept  corn,  or  hen's  eggs,  or  a  sand- 
wich at  the  door,  and  as  for  a  cheerful  glance  of 
the  eye,  it  is  for  us  the  best  of  minted  coin." 

(Item:  to  remember.  When  a  man  asks 
money  for  any  good  thing,  beware  of  it. 
You  can  get  a  better  for  nothing.) 

I  cannot  undertake  to  tell  where  the 
amusing  reflections  which  grew  out  of  my 
idea  would  finally  have  led  me  if  I  had  not 
been  interrupted.  Just  as  I  approached 
the  Patterson  farm,  near  the  bridge  which 
crosses  the  creek,  I  saw  a  loaded  wagon 
standing  on  the  slope  of  the  hill  ahead.  The 
horses  seemed  to  have  been  unhooked,  for  the 
tongue  was  down,  and  a  man  was  on  his 
knees  between  the  front  wheels. 

Involuntarily  I  said: 

"Another  member  of  my  society:  and  in 
distress!" 

I  had  a  heart  at  that  moment  for  any- 
thing. I  felt  like  some  old  neighbourly 
Knight  travelling  the  earth  in  search  of 
adventure.  If  there  had  been  a  distressed 
mistress  handy  at  that  moment,  I  feel  quite 
certain  I  could  have  died  for  her  —  if 
absolutely  necessary. 


lo    .  ADVENTURES  IN 

As  I  drove  alongside,  the  stocky,  stout 
lad  of  a  farmer  in  his  brown  duck  coat  lined 
with  sheep's  wool,  came  up  from  between 
the  wheels.  His  cap  was  awry,  his  trousers 
were  muddy  at  the  knees  where  he  had  knelt 
in  the  moist  road,  and  his  face  was  red  and 
angry. 

A  true  knight,  I  thought  to  myself,  looks 
not  to  the  beauty  of  his  lady,  but  only  to 
her   distress. 

"What's  the  matter,  Brother?"  I  asked 
in  the  friendliest  manner. 

"Bolt  gone,"  he  said  gruffly,  "and  I  got 
to  get  to  town  before  nightfall." 

"Get  in,"  I  said,  "and  we'll  drive  back. 
We  shall  see  it  in  the  road." 

So  he  got  in.  I  drove  the  mare  slowly  up  the 
hill  and  we  both  leaned  out  and  looked.  And 
presently  there  in  the  road  the  bolt  lay. 
My  farmer  got  out  and  picked  it  up. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "I  was  afraid 
it  was  clean  busted.  I'm  obliged  to  you  for 
the  lift." 

"Hold  on,"  I  said,  "get  in,  I'll  take  you 
back." 

"Oh,  I  can  walk." 

"But    I    can    drive    you    faster,'1    I    said* 


FRIENDSHIP  II 

"and  you've  got  to  get  the  load  to  town 
before  nightfall." 

I  could  not  let  him  go  without  taking 
tribute.  No  matter  what  the  story  books 
say,  I  am  firmly  of  the  opinion  that  no  gentle 
knight  (who  was  human)  ever  parted  with 
the  fair  lady  whose  misery  he  had  relieved 
without  exchanging  the  time  of  day,  or 
offering  her  a  bun  from  his  dinner  pail,  or 
finding  out  (for  instance)  if  she  were  maid 
or  married. 

My  farmer  laughed  and  got  in. 

"You  see,"  I  said,  "when  a  member  of 
my  society  is  in  distress  I  always  like  to  help 
him  out." 

He  paused;  I  watched  him  gradually 
evolve  his  reply: 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  a  Mason?" 

"Well,  I  wasn't  sure." 

"I  only  joined  last  winter,"  he  said.  "I 
like  it  first-rate.  When  you're  a  Mason  you 
find  friends  everywhere." 

I  had  some  excellent  remarks  that  I  could 
have  made  at  this  point,  but  the  distance 
was  short  and  bolts  were  irresistibly  upper- 
most. After  helping  him  to  put  in  the 
bolt,  I  said: 


12  ADVENTURES  IN 

"Here's  the  grip  of  fellowship." 

He  returned  it  with  a  will,  but  afterward 
he  said  doubtfully. 

I  didn't  feel  the  grip." 
Didn't,  you?"  I  asked.     "Well,  Brother, 
it  was  all  there." 

"If  ever  I  can  do  anything  for  you,"  he 
said,  "just  you  let  me  know.  Name's 
Forbes,  Spring  Brook." 

And  so  he  drove  away. 

"A  real  Mason, ':  I  said  to  myself,  "could 
not  have  had  any  better  advantage  of  his 
society  at  this  moment  than  I.  I  walked 
right  into  it  without  a  grip  or  a  pass.  And 
benefits  have  also  been  distributed." 

As  I  drove  onward  I  felt  as  though  any- 
thing might  happen  to  me  before  I  got 
home.  I  know  now  exactly  how  all  old 
knights,  all  voyageurs,  all  crusaders,  all 
poets  in  new  places,  must  have  felt!  I 
looked  out  at  every  turn  of  the  road;  and, 
finally,  after  I  had  grown  almost  discour- 
aged of  encountering  further  adventure  I  saw  a 
man  walking  in  the  road  ahead  of  me.  He 
was  much  bent  over,  and  carried  on  his  back 
a  bag. 

When    he    heard    me    coming    he    stepped 


FRIENDSHIP  13 

out  of  the  road  and  stood  silent,  saving 
every  unnecessary  motion,  as  a  weary  man 
will.  He  neither  looked  around  nor  spoke, 
but  waited  for  me  to  go  by.  He  was  weary 
past  expectation.     I  stopped  the  mare. 

"Get  in,  Brother,"  I  said;  "I  am  going 
your  way." 

He  looked  at  me  doubtfully;  then,  as  I 
moved  to  one  side,  he  let  his  bag  roll  off* 
his  back  into  his  arms.  I  could  see  the 
swollen  veins  of  his  neck;  his  face  had  the 
drawn  look  of  the  man  who  bears  burdens. 

"Pretty  heavy  for  your  buggy,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"Heavier  for  you,"  I  replied. 

So  he  put  the  bag  in  the  back  of  my  buggy 
and  stepped  in  beside  me  diffidently. 

"Pull  up  the  lap  robe,"  I  said,  "and  be 
comfortable." 

"Well,  sir,  I'm  glad  of  a  lift,"  he  remarked. 
'A  bag  of  seed  wheat  is  about  all  a  man 
wants  to  carry  for  four  miles." 

"Aren't  you  the  man  who  has  taken  the 
old  Rucker  farm?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  that  man." 

"I've  been  intending  to  drop  in  and  see 
you,"  I  said. 


14  ADVENTURES  IN 

"Have  you?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Yes,':  I  said.  "I  live  just  across  the 
hills  from  you,  and  I  had  a  notion  that  we 
ought  to  be  neighbourly  —  seeing  that  we 
belong  to  the  same  society." 

His  face,  which  had  worn  a  look  of  set 
discouragement  (he  didn't  know  beforehand 
what  the  Rucker  place  was  like!),  had  bright- 
ened up,  but  when  I  spoke  of  the  society  it 
clouded  again. 

"You  must  be  mistaken,'1  he  said.  "I'm 
not  a  Mason." 

"No  more  am  I,"  I  said. 

"Nor  an  Oddfellow." 

"Nor  I." 

As  I  looked  at  the  man  I  seemed  to  know 
all  about  him.  Some  people  come  to  us 
like  that,  all  at  once,  opening  out  to  some 
unsuspected  key.  His  face  bore  not  a  few 
marks  of  refinement,  though  work  and  dis- 
couragement had  done  their  best  to  oblit- 
erate them;  his  nose  was  thin  and  high, 
his  eye  was  blue,  too  blue,  and  his  chin 
somehow  did  not  go  with  the  Rucker  farm. 
I  knew!  A  man  who  in  his  time  had  seen 
many  an  open  door,  but  who  had  found  them 
all  closed  when  he  attempted  to  enter!     If 


FRIENDSHIP  15 

any  one  ever  needed  the  benefits  of  my 
fraternity,  he  was  that  man. 

"What  Society  did  you  think  I  belonged 
to?"  he  asked. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "when  I  was  in  town  a 
man  who  wanted  to  sell  me  a  corn-planter 
asked  me  if  I  was  a  Mason " 

"Did  he  ask  you  that,  too?"  interrupted 
my  companion. 

"He  did,"  I  said.     "He  did "  and  I 

reflected  not  without  enthusiasm  that  I  had 
come  away  without  a  corn-planter.  "And 
when  I  drove  out  of  town  I  was  feeling 
rather  depressed  because  I  wasn't  a  member 
of  the   lodge." 

Were   you?'     exclaimed    my   companion. 

So  was  I.  I  just  felt  as  though  I  had 
about  reached  the  last  ditch.  I  haven't 
any  money  to  pay  into  lodges  and  it  don't 
seem's  if  a  man  could  get  acquainted  and 
friendly  without." 

"Farming  is  rather  lonely  work  some- 
times, isn't  it?"  I  observed. 

"You  bet  it  is,"  he  responded.  "You've 
been  there  yourself,  haven't  you?" 

There  may  be  such  a  thing  as  the  friend- 
ship of  prosperity;   but  surely  it  cannot  be 


16  ADVENTURES  IN 

compared  with  the  friendship  of  adversity. 
Men,  stooping,  come  close  together. 

"But  when  I  got  to  thinking  it  over," 
I  said,  "it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  I 
belonged  to  the  greatest  of  all  fraternities. 
And  I  recognized  you  instantly  as  a  charter 
member." 

He  looked  around  at  me  expectantly,  half 
laughing.  I  don't  suppose  he  had  so  far 
forgotten  his  miseries  for  many  a  day. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked. 

"The  Universal  Brotherhood  of  Men." 

Well,  we  both  laughed  —  and  understood. 

After  that,  what  a  story  he  told  me! — > 
the  story  of  a  misplaced  man  on  an  unpro- 
ductive farm.  Is  it  not  marvellous  how 
full  people  are  —  all  people  —  of  humour, 
tragedy,  passionate  human  longings,  hopes, 
fears  —  if  only  you  can  unloosen  the  floods 
gates!  As  to  my  companion,  he  had  been 
growing  bitter  and  sickly  with  the  pent-up 
humours  of  discouragement;  all  he  needed 
was  a  listener. 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  talk  that  he 
did  not  at  first  realize  that  we  had  turned 
into  his  own  long  lane.  When  he  discovered 
it  he  exclaimed; 


FRIENDSHIP  17 

"I  didn't  mean  to  bring  you  out  of  your 
way.      I     can     manage    the    bag     all    right 


now.': 


Never  mind,':  I  said  "I  want  to  get 
you  home,  to  say  nothing  of  hearing  how 
you   came  out  with  your  pigs." 

As  we  approached  the  house,  a  mournful- 
looking  woman  came  to  the  door.  My 
companion  sprang  out  of  the  buggy  as  much 
elated  now  as  he  had  previously  been  de- 
pressed (for  that  was  the  coinage  of  his 
temperament),  rushed  up  to  his  wife  and 
led  her  down  to  the  gate.  She  was  evidently 
astonished  at  his  enthusiasm.  I  suppose 
she  thought  he  had  at  length  discovered  his 
gold  mine! 

When  I  finally  turned  the  mare  around, 
he  stopped  me,  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm 
and  said  in  a  confidential  voice: 

"I'm  glad  we  discovered  that  we  belong 
to  the  same  society." 

As  I  drove  away  I  could  not  help  chuck- 
ling when  I  heard  his  wife  ask  suspiciously: 

"What  society  is  that?" 

I  heard  no  word  of  his  answer:  only  the 
note  in  his  voice  of  eager  explanation. 

And    so    I    drove    homeward    in    the    late 


18    ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 

twilight,  and  as  I  came  up  the  lane,  the 
door  of  my  home  opened,  the  light  within 
gleamed  kindly  and  warmly  across  the  dark- 
ened yard:  and  Harriet  was  there  on  the 
step,  waiting. 


A   DAY  OF  PLEASANT   BREAD 


II 


A  DAY  OF  PLEASANT  BREAD 


THEY  have  all  gone  now,  and  the  house 
is  very  still.  For  the  first  time  this 
evening  I  can  hear  the  familiar  sound  of 
the  December  wind  blustering  about  the 
house,  complaining  at  closed  doorways,  ask- 
ing questions  at  the  shutters;  but  here  in 
my  room,  under  the  green  reading  lamp,  it 
is  warm,  and  still.  Although  Harriet  has 
closed  the  doors,  covered  the  coals  in  the 
fireplace,  and  said  good-night,  the  atmos- 
phere still  seems  to  tingle  with  the  electricity 
of  genial  humanity. 


9J 


22    ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 

The  parting  voice  of  the  Scotch  Preachef 
still  booms  in  my  ears: 

'This,':  said  he,  as  he  was  going  out  of 
our  door,  wrapped  like  an  Arctic  highlander 
in  cloaks  and  tippets,  "has  been  a  day  of 
pleasant  bread."  , 

One  of  the  very  pleasantest  I  can  remember! 

I  sometimes  think  we  expect  too  much 
of  Christmas  Day.  We  try  to  crowd  into 
it  the  long  arrears  of  kindliness  and  humanity 
of  the  whole  year.  As  for  me,  I  like  to  take 
my  Christmas  a  little  at  a  time,  all  through 
the  year.  And  thus  I  drift  along  into  the 
holidays  —  let  them  overtake  me  unex- 
pectedly —  waking  up  some  fine  morning 
and  suddenly  saying  to  myself: 

"Why,  this  is  Christmas  Day!" 

How  the  discovery  makes  one  bound  out 
of  his  bed!  What  a  new  sense  of  life  and 
adventure  it  imparts!  Almost  anything  may 
happen  on  a  day  like  this  —  one  thinks. 
I  may  meet  friends  I  have  not  seen  before 
in  years.  Who  knows?  I  may  discover 
that  this  is  a  far  better  and  kindlier  world 
than  I  had  ever  dreamed  it  could  be. 

So  I  sing  out  to  Harriet  as  I  go  down : 

"Merry    Christmas,    Harriet"  —  and    not 


nKiife»ttS§2?y5Si.i«' 


24  ADVENTURES  IN 

waiting  for  her  sleepy  reply  I  go  down  and 
build  the  biggest,  warmest,  friendliest  fire 
of  the  year.  Then  I  get  into  my  thick  coat 
and  mittens  and  open  the  back  door.  All 
around  the  sill,  deep  on  the  step,  and  all 
about  the  yard  lies  the  drifted  snow:  it  has 
transformed  my  wood  pile  into  a  grotesque 
Indian  mound,  and  it  frosts  the  roof  of  my 
barn  like  a  wedding  cake.  I  go  at  it  lustily 
with  my  wooden  shovel,  clearing  out  a  path- 
way to  the  gate. 

Cold,  too;  one  of  the  coldest  mornings 
we've  had  —  but  clear  and  very  still.  The 
sun  is  just  coming  up  over  the  hill  near 
Horace's  farm.  From  Horace's  chimney  the 
white  wood-smoke  of  an  early  fire  rises  straight 
upward,  all  golden  with  sunshine,  into  the 
measureless  blue  of  the  sky  —  on  its  way  to 
heaven,  for  aught  I  know.  When  I  reach  the 
gate  my  blood  is  racing  warmly  in  my  veins. 
I  straighten  my  back,  thrust  my  shovel  into 
the  snow  pile,  and  shout  at  the  top  of  my 
voice,   for   I   can   no   longer  contain   myself: 

"Merry  Christmas,  Harriet." 

Harriet  opens  the  door  —  just  a  crack. 

"Merry  Christmas  yourself,  you  Arctic 
explorer!     Oo  —  but    it's    cold!" 


FRIENDSHIP  25 

And  she  closes  the  door. 

Upon  hearing  these  riotous  sounds  the 
barnyard  suddenly  awakens.  I  hear  my 
horse  whinnying  from  the  barn,  the  chickens 
begin  to  crow  and  cackle,  and  such  a  grunting 
and  squealing  as  the  pigs  set  up  from  behind 
the  straw  stack,  it  would  do  a  man's  heart 
good  to  hear! 

"It's  a  friendly  world,"  I  say  to  myself, 
"and  full  of  business." 

I  plow  through  the  snow  to  the  stable 
door.  I  scuff  and  stamp  the  snow  away 
and  pull  it  open  with  difficulty.  A  cloud 
of  steam  rises  out  of  the  warmth  within.  I 
step  inside.  My  horse  raises  his  head  above 
the  stanchion,  looks  around  at  me,  and 
strikes  his  forefoot  on  the  stable  floor  —  the 
best  greeting  he  has  at  his  command  for  a 
fine  Christmas  morning.  My  cow,  until 
now  silent,  begins  to  bawl. 

I  Jay  my  hand  on  the  horse's  flank  and  he 
steps  over  in  his  stall  to  let  me  go  by.  I 
slap  his  neck  and  he  lays  back  his  ears  play- 
fully. Thus  I  go  out  into  the  passageway 
and  give  my  horse  his  oats,  throw  corn  and 
stalks  to  the  pigs  and  a  handful  of  grain 
to  Harriet's  chickens   (it's  the  only  way  to 


26  ADVENTURES  IN 

stop  the  cackling!).  And  thus  presently 
the  barnyard  is  quiet  again  except  for  the 
sound  of  contented  feeding. 

Take  my  word  for  it,  this  is  one  of  the 
pleasant  moments  of  life.  I  stand  and  look 
long  at  my  barnyard  family.  I  observe  with 
satisfaction  how  plump  they  are  and  how 
well  they  are  bearing  the  winter.  Then 
I  look  up  at  my  mountainous  straw  stack 
with  its  capping  of  snow,  and  my  corn  crib 
with  the  yellow  ears  visible  through  the 
slats,  and  my  barn  with  its  mow  full  of  hay 
—  all  the  gatherings  of  the  year,  now  being 
expended  in  growth.  I  cannot  at  all  ex- 
plain it,  but  at  such  moments  the  circuit 
of  that  dim  spiritual  battery  which  each  of 
us  conceals  within  seems  to  close,,  and  the  full 
current  of  contentment  flows  through  our  lives. 

All  the  morning  as  I  went  about  my  chores 
I  had  a  peculiar  sense  of  expected  pleasure. 
It  seemed  certain  to  me  that  something 
unusual  and  adventurous  was  about  to  hap- 
pen —  and  if  it  did  not  happen  offhand, 
why  I  was  there  to  make  it  happen !  When 
I  went  in  to  breakfast  (do  you  know  the 
fragrance  of  broiling  bacon  when  you  have 
worked  for  an  hour  before  breakfast  on  a 


FRIENDSHIP  27 

morning  of  zero  weather?  If  you  do  not, 
consider  that  heaven  still  has  gifts  in  store 
for  you!)  — when  I  went  in  to  breakfast,  I 
fancied  that  Harriet  looked  preoccupied,  but 
I  was  too  busy  just  then  (hot  corn  muffins)  to 
make  an  inquiry,  and  I  knew  by  experience 
that  the  best  solvent  of  secrecy  is  patience. 

"David,"  said  Harriet,  presently,  "the 
cousins  can't  come!" 

"Can't  come!"  I  exclaimed. 
Why,  you  act  as  if  you  were  delighted.'1 
:No  —  well,  yes,"  I  said,   "I    knew    that 
some    extraordinary    adventure    was     about 
to  happen!" 

"Adventure!  It's  a  cruel  disappointment 
—  I  was  all  ready  for  them." 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "adventure  is  just 
what  we  make  it.  And  aren't  we  to  have 
the  Scotch  Preacher  and  his  wife?" 

"But  I've  got  such  a  good  dinner.'1 

"Well,"  I  said,  "there  are  no  two  ways 
about  it:  it  must  be  eaten!  You  may  de- 
pend upon  me  to  do  my  duty.'1 

"We'll  have  to  send  out  into  the  highways 
and  compel  them  to  come  in,"  said  Harriet 
ruefully. 

I  had  several  choice  observations  I  should 


28  ADVENTURES  IN 

have  liked  to  make  upon  this  problem,  but 
Harriet  was  plainly  not  listening;  she  sat 
with  her  eyes  fixed  reflectively  on  the  coffee- 
pot. I  watched  her  for  a  moment,  then  I 
remarked: 

"There  aren't  any." 

"  David,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  did  you 
know  what  I  was  thinking  about?" 

"I  merely  wanted  to  show  you,':  I  said, 
"that  my  genius  is  not  properly  appreciated 
in  my  own  household.  You  thought  of  high- 
ways, didn't  you?  Then  you  thought  of 
the  poor;  especially  the  poor  on  Christmas 
day;  then  of  Mrs.  Heney,  who  isn't  poor 
any  more,  having  married  John  Daniels;  and 
then  I  said,  'There  aren't  any.'" 

Harriet  laughed. 

"It  has  come  to  a  pretty  pass,':  she  said, 
"when  there  are  no  poor  people  to  invite 
to  dinner  on  Christmas  day." 

"It's  a  tragedy,  I'll  admit,"  I  said,  "but 
let's  be  logical  about  it." 

"I  am  willing,"  said  Harriet,  "to  be  as 
logical  as  you  like." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "having  no  poor  to  invite 
to  dinner  we  must  necessarily  try  the  rich. 
That's  logical,  isn't  it? 


3» 


FRIENDSHIP  29 

"Who?"  asked  Harriet,  which  is  just 
like  a  woman.  Whenever  you  get  a  good 
healthy  argument  started  with  her,  she  will 
suddenly  short-circuit  it,  and  want  to  know 
if  you  mean  Mr.  Smith,  or  Joe  Perkins's 
boys,  which  I  maintain  is  not  logical. 

"Well,  there  are  the  Starkweathers,"  J 
said. 

"David!" 

"They're  rich,  aren't  they?" 

"Yes,  but  you  know  how  the}^  live — ■ 
what  dinners  they  have  —  and  besides,  they 
probably  have  a  houseful  of  company.'1 

"Weren't  you  telling  me  the  other  day 
how  many  people  who  were  really  suffering 
were  too  proud  to  let  anyone  know  about 
it?  Weren't  you  advising  the  necessity  of 
getting  acquainted  with  people  and  finding 
out  —  tactfully,  of  course  —  you  made  a 
point  of  tact  —  what  the  trouble  was?" 

"But  I  was  talking  of  poor  people." 

"Why  shouldn't  a  rule  that  is  good  for 
poor  people  be  equally  as  good  for  rich 
people?     Aren't  they  proud?" 

"Oh,  you  can  argue,"  observed  Harriet. 

"And  I  can  act,  too,"  I  said.  "I  am  now 
going  over  to   invite   the   Starkweathers.     I 


30  ADVENTURES  IN 

heard  a  rumour  that  their  cook  has  left  them 
and  I  expect  to  find  them  starving  in  their 
parlour.  Of  course  they'll  be  very  haughty 
and  proud,  but  I'll  be  tactful,  and  when  I 
go  away  I'll  casually  leave  a  diamond  tiara 
in  the  front  hall." 

'What  is  the  matter  with  you  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"Christmas,"  I  said. 

I  can't  tell  how  pleased  I  was  with  the 
enterprise  I  had  in  mind:  it  suggested  all 
sorts  of  amusing  and  surprising  develop- 
ments. Moreover,  I  left  Harriet,  finally, 
in  the  breeziest  of  spirits,  having  quite  for- 
gotten her  disappointment  over  the  non- 
arrival  of  the  cousins. 

"If  you  should  get  the  Starkweathers  — — " 

"'In  the  bright  lexicon  of  youth,'  I  ob- 
served,   "'there   is    no   such   word    as    fail.' 

So  I  set  off  up  the  town  road.  A  team 
or  two  had  already  been  that  way  and  had 
broken  a  track  through  the  snow.  The 
sun  was  now  fully  up,  but  the  air  still  tingled 
with  the  electricity  of  zero  weather.  And 
the  fields!  I  have  seen  the  fields  of  June 
and  the  fields  of  October,  but  I  think  I  never 
saw  our  countryside,  hills  and  valleys,  tree 


FRIENDSHIP  31 

spaces  and  brook  bottoms,  more  enchant- 
ingly  beautiful  than  it  was  this  morning. 
Snow  everywhere  —  the  fences  half  hidden, 
the  bridges  clogged,  the  trees  laden:  where 
the  road  was  hard  it  squeaked  under  my  feet, 
and  where  it  was  soft  I  strode  through  the 
drifts.  And  the  air  went  to  one's  head  like 
wine! 

So  I  tramped  past  the  Pattersons'.  The 
old  man,  a  grumpy  old  fellow,  was  going 
to  the  barn  with  a  pail  on  his  arm. 

"Merry  Christmas,"  I  shouted. 

He  looked  around  at  me  wonderingly 
and  did  not  reply.  At  the  corners  I  met 
the  Newton  boys  so  wrapped  in  tippets  that 
I  could  see  only  their  eyes  and  the  red  ends 
of  their  small  noses.  I  passed  the  Williams's 
house,  where  there  was  a  cheerful  smoke 
in  the  chimney  and  in  the  window  a  green 
wreath  with  a  lively  red  bow.  And  I  thought 
how  happy  everyone  must  be  on  a  Christmas 
morning  like  this!  At  the  hill  bridge  who 
should  I  meet  but  the  Scotch  Preacher  him- 
self, God  bless  him! 

"Well,  well,  David,"  he  exclaimed  heartily, 
w Merry  Christmas." 

I  drew  my  face  down  and  said  solemnly: 


32  ADVENTURES  IN 

uDr.  McAlway,  I  am  on  a  most  serious 
errand." 

"Why,  now,  what's  the  matter?"  He 
was  all  sympathy  at  once. 

"I  am  out  in  the  highways  trying  to  com- 
pel the  poor  of  this  neighbourhood  to  come 
to  our  feast." 

The  Scotch  Preacher  observed  me  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"David,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
mouth  as  if  to  speak  in  my  ear,  "  there  is 
a  poor  man  you  will  na'  have  to  compel.'1 

"Oh,  you  don't  count,':  I  said.  "You're 
coming  anyhow." 

Then  I  told  him  of  the  errand  with  our 
millionaire  friends,  into  the  spirit  of  which 
he  entered  with  the  greatest  zest.  He  was 
full  of  advice  and  much  excited  lest  I  fail 
to  do  a  thoroughly  competent  job.  For  a 
moment  I  think  he  wanted  to  take  the  whole 
thing  out  of  my  hands. 

"Man,  man,  it's  a  lovely  thing  to  do,': 
he  exclaimed,  "but  I  ha'  me  doots  —  I  ha' 
me  doots." 

At  parting  he  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
with  a  serious  face  inquired: 

"Is  it  by  any  chance  a  goose?" 


FRIENDSHIP  33 

"It  is,"  I  said,  "a  goose  —  a  big  one." 

He  heaved  a  sigh  of  complete  satisfaction. 
"You  have  comforted  my  mind,"  he  said, 
"with  the  joys  of  anticipation  —  a  goose, 
a  big  goose." 

So  I  left  him  and  went  onward  toward  the 
Starkweathers'.  Presently  I  saw  the  great 
house  standing  among  its  wintry  trees.  There 
was  smoke  in  the  chimney  but  no  other 
evidence  of  life.  At  the  gate  my  spirits, 
which  had  been  of  the  best  all  the  morning, 
began  to  fail  me.  Though  Harriet  and  I 
were  well  enough  acquainted  with  the  Stark- 
weathers, yet  at  this  late  moment  on 
Christmas  morning  it  did  seem  rather  a  hair- 
brained  scheme  to  think  of  inviting  them  to 
dinner. 

"Never  mind,"  I  said,  "they'll  not  be 
displeased  to  see  me  anyway." 

I  waited  in  the  reception-room,  which 
was  cold  and  felt  damp.  In  the  parlour 
beyond  I  could  see  the  innumerable  things 
of  beauty  —  furniture,  pictures,  books,  so 
very,  very  much  of  everything  —  with  which 
the  room  was  filled.  I  saw  it  now,  as  I  had 
often  seen  it  before,  with  a  peculiar  sense 
of  weariness.     How  all  these  things,  though 


34  ADVENTURES  IN 

beautiful  enough  in  themselves,  must  clutter 
up  a  man's  life! 

Do  you  know,  the  more  I  look  into  life, 
the  more  things  it  seems  to  me  I  can  suc- 
cessfully lack  —  and  continue  to  grow  hap- 
pier. How  many  kinds  of  food  I  do  not 
need,  nor  cooks  to  cook  them,  how  much 
curious  clothing  nor  tailors  to  make  it,  how 
many  books  that  I  never  read,  and  pictures 
that  are  not  worth  while!  The  farther  I 
run,  the  more  I  feel  like  casting  aside  all 
such  impedimenta  —  lest  I  fail  to  arrive 
at  the  far  goal  of  my  endeavour. 

I  like  to  think  of  an  old  Japanese  noble- 
man I  once  read  about,  who  ornamented 
his  house  with  a  single  vase  at  a  time,  living 
with  it,  absorbing  its  message  of  beauty, 
and  when  he  tired  of  it,  replacing  it  with 
another.  I  wonder  if  he  had  the  right  way, 
and  we,  with  so  many  objects  to  hang  on 
our  walls,  place  on  our  shelves,  drape  on  our 
chairs,  and  spread  on  our  floors,  have  mis- 
taken our  course  and  placed  our  hearts  upon 
the  multiplicity  rather  than  the  quality  of 
our  possessions! 

Presently  Mr.  Starkweather  appeared  in 
the   doorway.     He  wore   a   velvet  smoking- 


FRIENDSHIP  ^5 

jacket  and  slippers;  and  somehow,  for  a 
bright  morning  like  this,  he  seemed  old,  and 
worn,  and  cold. 

"Well,  well,  friend,"  he  said,  "I'm  glad 
to  see  you." 

He  said  it  as  though  he  meant  it. 

"Come  into  the  library;  it's  the  only 
room  in  the  whole  house  that  is  comfortably 
warm.  You've  no  idea  what  a  task  it  is 
to  heat  a  place  like  this  in  really  cold  weather. 
No  sooner  do  I  find  a  man  who  can  run 
my    furnace    than    he    goes    off    and    leaves 


me. 


"I  can  sympathize  with  you,"  I  said, 
"we  often  have  trouble  at  our  house  with 
the  man  who  builds  the  fires." 

He  looked  around  at  me  quizzically. 

"He  lies  too  long  in  bed  in  the  morning," 
I  said. 

By  this  time  we  had  arrived  at  the  library, 
where  a  bright  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate. 
It  was  a  fine  big  room,  with  dark  oak  furnish- 
ings and  books  in  cases  along  one  wall,  but 
this  morning  it  had  a  dishevelled  and  untidy 
look.  On  a  little  table  at  one  side  of  the 
fireplace  were  the  remains  of  a  breakfast; 
at  the  other  a  number  of  wraps  were  thrown 


36  ADVENTURES  IN 

carelessly  upon  a  chair.  As  I  came  in  Mrs. 
Starkweather  rose  from  her  place,  drawing 
a  silk  scarf  around  her  shoulders.  She  is  a 
robust,  rather  handsome  woman,  with  many 
rings  on  her  fingers,  and  a  pair  of  glasses 
hanging  to  a  little  gold  hook  on  her  ample 
bosom;  but  this  morning  she,  too,  looked 
worried  and  old. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  with  a  rueful  laugh, 
"we're  beginning  a  merry  Christmas,  as  you 
see.  Think  of  Christmas  with  no  cook  in 
the  house!" 

I  felt  as  if  I  had  discovered  a  gold  mine. 
Poor    starving    millionaires ! 

But  Mrs.  Starkweather  had  not  told  the 
whole  of  her  sorrowful  story. 

"We  had  a  company  of  friends  invited 
for  dinner  to-day,"  she  said,  "and  our  cook 
was  ill  —  or  said  she  was  —  and  had  to  go. 
One  of  the  maids  went  with  her.  The  man 
who  looks  after  the  furnace  disappeared 
on  Friday,  and  the  stableman  has  been  drink- 
ing. We  can't  very  well  leave  the  place 
without  some  one  who  is  responsible  in 
charge  of  it  —  and  so  here  we  are.  Merry 
Christmas!  " 

I    couldn't    help    laughing.     Poor    people! 


FRIENDSHIP  37 

"You  might,"  I  said,  "apply  for  Mrs. 
Heney's   place." 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Heney?"  asked  Mrs.  Stark- 
weather. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  never 
heard  of  Mrs.  Heney!"  I  exclaimed.  "Mrs. 
Heney,  who  is  now  Mrs.  'Penny'  Daniels? 
You've  missed  one  of  our  greatest  celebrities.'1 

With  that,  of  course,  I  had  to  tell  them 
about  Mrs.  Heney,  who  has  for  years  per- 
formed a  most  important  function  in  this 
community.  Alone  and  unaided  she  has 
been  the  poor  whom  we  are  supposed  to 
have  always  with  us.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
the  devoted  faithfulness  of  Mrs.  Heney  at 
Thanksgiving,  Christmas  and  other  times  of 
the  year,  I  suppose  our  Woman's  Aid  Society 
and  the  King's  Daughters  would  have  per- 
ished miserably  of  undistributed  turkeys 
and  tufted  comforters.  For  years  Mrs. 
Heney  filled  the  place  most  acceptably. 
Curbing  the  natural  outpourings  of  a  rather 
jovial  soul  she  could  upon  occasion  look  as 
deserving  of  charity  as  any  person  that  ever 
I  met.  But  I  pitied  the  little  Heneys:  it 
always  comes  hard  on  the  children.  For 
weeks  after  every  Thanksgiving  and  Christ- 


38  ADVENTURES  IN 

mas  they  always  wore  a  painfully  stuffed 
and  suffocated  look.  I  only  came  to  appre- 
ciate fully  what  a  self-sacrificing  public 
servant  Mrs.  Heney  really  was  when  I  learned 
that  she  had  taken  the  desperate  alternative 
of  marrying  "Penny"  Daniels. 

"So  you  think  we  might  possibly  aspire 
to  the  position?"  laughed  Mrs.  Starkweather. 

Upon  this  I  told  them  of  the  trouble  in 
our  household  and  asked  them  to  come  down 
and  help  us  enjoy  Dr.  McAlway  and  the 
goose. 

When  I  left,  after  much  more  pleasant 
talk,  they  both  came  with  me  to  the  door 
seeming  greatly  improved  in  spirits. 

"You've  given  us  something  to  live  for, 
Mr.  Grayson,"  said  Mrs.  Starkweather. 

So  I  walked  homeward  in  the  highest 
spirits,  and  an  hour  or  more  later  who  should 
we  see  in  the  top  of  our  upper  field  but  Mr. 
Starkweather  and  his  wife  floundering  in 
the  snow.  They  reached  the  lane  literally 
covered  from  top  to  toe  with  snow  and  both 
of  them  ruddy  with  the  cold: 

"We  walked  over,"  said  Mrs.  Starkweather 
breathlessly,  "and  I  haven't  had  so  much 
fun  in  years.  " 


FRIENDSHIP  39 

Mr.  Starkweather  helped  her  over  the  fence. 
The  Scotch  Preacher  stood  on  the  steps  to 
receive  them,  and  we  all  went  in  together. 

I  can't  pretend  to  describe  Harriet's  dinner: 
the  gorgeous  brown  goose,  and  the  apple 
sauce,  and  all  the  other  things  that  best 
go  with  it>  and  the  pumpkin  pie  at  the  end 
—  the  finest,  thickest,  most  delicious  pump- 
kin pie  I  ever  ate  in  all  my  life.  It  melted 
in  one's  mouth  and  brought  visions  of 
celestial  bliss.  And  I  wish  I  could  have 
a  picture  of  Harriet  presiding.  I  have  never 
seen  her  happier,  or  more  in  her  element. 
Every  time  she  brought  in  a  new  dish  or 
took  off  a  cover  it  was  a  sort  of  miracle.  And 
her  coffee  —  but  I  must  not  and  dare  not 
elaborate. 

And  what  great  talk  we  had  afterward! 

I've  known  the  Scotch  Preacher  for  a  long 
time,  but  I  never  saw  him  in  quite  such  a 
mood  of  hilarity.  He  and  Mr.  Starkweather 
told  stories  of  their  boyhood  —  and  we 
laughed,  and  laughed  —  Mrs.  Starkweather 
the  most  of  all.  Seeing  her  so  often  in  her 
carriage,  or  in  the  dignity  of  her  home,  I 
didn't  think  she  had  so  much  jollity  in  her. 
Finally  she  discovered  Harriet's  cabinet  or- 


4o  ADVENTURES  IN 

gan,  and  nothing  would  do  but  she  must 
sing  for  us. 

"None  of  the  new-fangled  ones,  Clara," 
cried  her  husband:  "some  of  the  old  ones 
we  used  to  know." 

So  she  sat  herself  down  at  the  organ  and 
threw  her  head  back  and  began  to  sing: 

"  Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms, 
Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day ," 

Mr.  Starkweather  jumped  up  and  ran 
over  to  the  organ  and  joined  in  with  his 
deep  voice.  Harriet  and  I  followed.  The 
Scotch  Preacher's  wife  nodded  in  time  with 
the  music,  and  presently  I  saw  the  tears  in 
her  eyes.  As  for  Dr.  McAlway,  he  sat  on 
the  edge  of  his  chair  with  his  hands  en  his 
knees  and  wagged  his  shaggy  head,  and  be- 
fore we  got  through  he,  too,  joined  in  with 
his  big  sonorous  voice: 

"  Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored  as  this  moment  thou  art ," 

Oh,  I  can't  tell  here  —  it  grows  late  and 
there's  work  to-morrow  —  all  the  things  we 
did  and  said.  They  stayed  until  it  was  dark, 
and  when  Mrs.  Starkweather  was  ready 
to  go,  she  took  both  of  Harriet's  hands  in 
hers  and  said  with  great  earnestness: 


FRIENDSHIP 


4* 


"I  haven't  had  such  a  good  time  at  Christ- 
mas since  I  was  a  little  girl.  I  shall  never 
forget  it." 

And  the  dear  old  Scotch  Preacher,  when 
Harriet  and  I  had  wrapped  him  up,  went 
out,  saying: 

"This  has  been  a  day  of  pleasant  bread." 

It  has;  it  has.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  it. 
What  a  lot  of  kindness  and  common  human 
nature  —  childlike  simplicity,  if  you  will 
—  there  is  in  people  once  you  get  them  down 
together  and  persuade  them  that  the  things 
they  think  serious  are  not  serious  at  all. 


r^ 


THE  OPEN    ROAD 


>«:. ref- 


ill 


THE  OPEN  ROAD 


"To  make  space  for  wandering  is  it  that  the  world  was 

made  so  wide." 

— Goethe,  Wilhelm  Meister. 

I  LOVE  sometimes  to  have  a  day  alone  — 
a  riotous  day.  Sometimes  I  do  not 
care  to  see  even  my  best  friends:  but  I  give 
myself  up  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  world 
around  me.  I  go  out  of  my  door  in  the  morn- 
ing —  preferably  a  sunny  morning,  though 
any  morning  will  do  well  enough  —  and 
walk  straight  out  into  the  world.  I  take 
with  me  the  burden  of  no  duty  or  responsi- 
bility.     I     draw    in    the    fresh    air,    odour- 

45 


46  ADVENTURES  IN 

laden  from  orchard  and  wood.  I  look  about 
me  as  if  everything  were  new  —  and  behold 
everything  is  new.  My  barn,  my  oaks, 
my  fences  —  I  declare  I  never  saw  them 
before.  I  have  no  preconceived  impressions, 
or  beliefs,  or  opinions.  My  lane  fence  is  the 
end  of  the  known  earth.  I  am  a  discoverer 
of  new  fields  among  old  ones.  I  see,  feel, 
hear,  smell,  taste  all  these  wonderful  things 
for  the  first  time.  I  have  no  idea  what 
discoveries  I  shall  make! 

So  I  go  down  the  lane,  looking  up  and 
about  me.  I  cross  the  toWn  road  and  climb 
the  fence  on  the  other  side.  I  brush  one 
shoulder  among  the  bushes  as  I  pass:  I 
feel  the  solid  yet  easy  pressure  of  the  sod. 
The  long  blades  of  the  timothy-grass  clasp 
at  my  legs  and  let  go  with  reluctance.  I 
break  off  a  twig  here  and  there  and  taste 
the  tart  or  bitter  sap.  I  take  off  my  hat 
and  let  the  warm  sun  shine  on  my  head. 
I  am  an  adventurer  upon  a  new  earth. 

Is  it  not  marvellous  how  far  afield  some 
of  us  are  willing  to  travel  in  pursuit  of  that 
beauty  which  we  leave  behind  us  at  home? 
We  mistake  unfamiliarity  for  beauty;  we 
darken  our  perceptions  with  idle  foreignness. 


-       FRIENDSHIP  47 

For  want  of  that  ardent  inner  curiosity  which 
is  the  only  true  foundation  for  the  apprecia- 
tion of  beauty  —  for  beauty  is  inward,  not 
outward  —  we  find  ourselves  hastening  from 
land  to  land,  gathering  mere  curious  resem- 
blances which,  like  unassimilated  property, 
possess  no  power  of  fecundation.  With  what 
pathetic  diligence  we  collect  peaks  and  passes 
in  Switzerland;  how  we  come  laden  from 
England  with  vain   cathedrals! 

Beauty?  What  is  it  but  a  new  way  of 
approach?  For  wilderness,  for  foreignness, 
I  have  no  need  to  go  a  mile:  I  have  only 
to  come  up  through  my  thicket  or  cross 
my  field  from  my  own  roadside  —  and  be- 
hold, a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth! 

Things  grow  old  and  stale,  not  because 
they  are  old,  but  because  we  cease  to  see 
them.  Whole  vibrant  significant  worlds 
around  us  disappear  within  the  sombre 
mists  of  familiarity.  Whichever  way  we 
look  the  roads  are  dull  and  barren.  There 
is  a  tree  at  our  gate  we  have  not  seen  in  years: 
a  flower  blooms  in  our  door-yard  more  won- 
derful than  the  shining  heights  of  the  Alps! 

It  has  seemed  to  me  sometimes  as  though 
I  could  see  men  hardening  before  my  eyes, 


48  ADVENTURES  IN 

drawing  in  a  feeler  here,  walling  up  an  open- 
ing there.  Naming  things!  Objects  fall 
into  categories  for  them  and  wear  little  sure 
channels  in  the  brain.  A  mountain  is  a 
mountain,  a  tree  a  tree  to  them,  a  field  for- 
ever a  field.  Life  solidifies  itself  in  words. 
And  finally  how  everything  wearies  them: 
and  that  is  old  age! 

Is  it  not  the  prime  struggle  of  life  to  keep 
the  mind  plastic?  To  see  and  feel  and 
hear  things  newly?  To  accept  nothing  as 
settled;  to  defend  the  eternal  right  of  the 
questioner?  To  reject  every  conclusion  of 
yesterday  before  the  surer  observations  of 
to-day?  —  is  not  that  the  best  life  we  know? 

And  so  to  the  Open  Road!  Not  many 
miles  from  my  farm  there  is  a  tamarack 
swamp.  The  soft  dark  green  of  it  fills  the 
round  bowl  of  a  valley.  Around  it  spread 
rising  forests  and  fields;  fences  divide  it 
from  the  known  land.  Coming  across  my 
fields  one  day,  I  saw  it  there.  I  felt  the 
habit  of  avoidance.  It  is  a  custom,  well 
enough  in  a  practical  land,  to  shun  such  a 
spot  of  perplexity;  but  on  that  day  I  was 
following  the  Open  Road,  and  it  led  me 
straight   to   the   moist   dark   stillness   of  the 


FRIENDSHIP  49 

tamaracks.  I  cannot  here  tell  all  the  marvels 
I  found  in  that  place.  I  trod  where  human 
foot  had  never  trod  before.  Cobwebs  barred 
my  passage  (the  bars  to  most  passages  when 
we  came  to  them  are  only  cobwebs),  the 
earth  was  soft  with  the  thick  swamp  mosses, 
and  with  many  an  autumn  of  fallen  dead, 
brown  leaves.  I  crossed  the  track  of  a  musk- 
rat,  I  saw  the  nest  of  a  hawk  —  and  how, 
how  many  other  things  of  the  wilderness 
I  must  not  here  relate.  And  I  came  out  of 
it  renewed  and  refreshed;  I  know  now  the 
feeling  of  the  pioneer  and  the  discoverer. 
Peary  has  no  more  than  I;  Stanley  tells 
me  nothing  I  have  not  experienced! 

What  more  than  that  is  the  accomplish- 
ment of  the  great  inventor,  poet,  painter? 
Such  cannot  abide  habit-hedged  wildernesses. 
They  follow  the  Open  Road,  they  see  for 
themselves,  and  will  not  accept  the  paths 
or  the  names  of  the  world.  And  Sight, 
kept  clear,  becomes,  curiously,  Insight.  A 
thousand  had  seen  apples  fall  before  Newton. 
But  Newton  was  dowered  with  the  spirit 
of  the  Open  Road! 

Sometimes  as  I  walk,  seeking  to  see,  hear, 
feel,  everything  newly,  I  devise  secret  words 


So  ADVENTURES  IN 

for  the  things  I  see:  words  that  convey 
to  me  alone  the  thought,  or  impression,  or 
emotion  of  a  peculiar  spot.  All  this,  I 
know,  to  some  will  seem  the  acme  of  foolish 
illusion.  Indeed,  I  am  not  telling  of  it 
because  it  is  practical;  there  is  no  cash  at 
the  end  of  it.  I  am  reporting  it  as  an  ex- 
perience in  life;  those  who  understand  will 
understand.  And  thus  out  of  my  journeys 
I  have  words  which  bring  back  to  me  with 
indescribable  poignancy  the  particular  im- 
pression of  a  time  or  a  place.  I  prize  them 
more  highly  than  almost  any  other  of  my 
possessions,  for  they  come  to  me  seemingly 
out  of  the  air,  and  the  remembrance  of 
them  enables  me  to  recall  or  live  over  a 
past  experience  with  scarcely  diminished 
emotion. 

And  one  of  these  words  — -  how  it  brings 
to  me  the  very  mood  of  a  gray  October  day! 
A  sleepy  west  wind  blowing.  The  fields 
are  bare,  the  corn  shocks  brown,  and  the  long 
road  looks  flat  and  dull.  Away  in  the  marsh 
I  hear  a  single  melancholy  crow.  A  heavy 
day,  namelessly  sad!  Old  sorrows  flock  to 
one's  memory  and  old  regrets.  The  creeper 
is  red  in  the  swamp  and  the  grass  is  brown 


FRIENDSHIP  Si 

on  the  hill.  It  comes  to  me  that  I  was  a 
boy   once 

So  to  the  flat  road  and  away!  And  turn 
at  the  turning  and  rise  with  the  hill.  Will 
the  mood  change:  will  the  day?  I  see  a 
lone  man  in  the  top  of  a  pasture  crying 
"Coo-ee,  coo-ee."  I  do  not  see  at  first 
why  he  cries  and  then  over  the  hill  come  the 
ewes,  a  dense  gray  flock  of  them,  huddling 
toward  me.  The  yokel  behind  has  a  stick 
in  each  hand.  "Coo-ee,  coo-ee,"  he  also 
cries.  And  the  two  men,  gathering  in,  threat- 
ening, sidling,  advancing  slowly,  the  sheep 
turning  uncertainly  this  way  and  that,  come 
at  last  to  the  boarded  pen. 

"That's  the  idee,"  says  the  helper. 

"A  poor  lot,"  remarks  the  leader:  "such 
Is  the  farmers  life." 

From  the  roadway  they  back  their  frame- 
decked  wagon  to  the  fence  and  unhook 
their  team.  The  leader  throws  off  his  coat 
and  stands  thick  and  muscular  in  his  blue 
jeans  —  a  roistering  fellow  with  a  red  face, 
thick  neck  and  chapped  hands. 

"I'll  pass  'em  up,"  he  says;  "that's  a 
man's  work.  You  stand  in  the  wagon  and 
put  'em  in." 


52  ADVENTURES  IN 

So  he  springs  into  the  yard  and  the  sheep 
huddle  close  into  the  corner,  here  and  there 
raising  a  timid  head,  here  and  there  darting 
aside  in  a  panic. 

"Hi  there,  it's  for  you,"  shouts  the  leader, 
and  thrusts  his  hands  deep  in  the  wool  of 
one  of  the  ewes. 

"Come  up  here,  you  Southdown  with 
the  bare  belly,"  says  the  man  in  the  wagon. 

"That's  my  old  game  —  wrastling,"  the 
leader  remarks,  struggling  with  the  next 
ewe.  "Stiddy,  stiddy,  now  I  got  you,  up 
with  you,   dang  you!" 

"That's  the  idee,"  says  the  man  in  the 
wagon. 

So  I  watch  and  they  pass  up  the  sheep 
one  by  one  and  as  I  go  on  down  the  road 
I  hear  the  leader's  thick  voice,  "Stiddy, 
stiddy,"  and  the  response  of  the  other, 
"That's  the  idee."  And  so  on  into  the  gray 
day! 

My  Open  Road  leads  not  only  to  beauty, 
not  only  to  fresh  adventures  in  outer  obser- 
vation. I  believe  in  the  Open  Road  in 
religion,  in  education,  in  politics:  there  is 
nothing  really  settled,  fenced  in,  nor  finally 
decided   upon   this   earth.     Nothing   that   is 


FRIENDSHIP  53 

not  questionable.  I  do  not  mean  that  I 
would  immediately  tear  down  well-built 
fences  or  do  away  with  established  and  beaten 
roads.  By  no  means.  The  wisdom  of  past 
ages  is  likely  to  be  wiser  than  any  hasty  con- 
clusions of  mine.  I  would  not  invite  any 
other  person  to  follow  my  road  until  I  had 
well  proven  it  a  better  way  toward  truth 
than  that  which  time  had  established.  And 
yet  I  would  have  every  man  tread  the  Open 
Road;  I  would  have  him  upon  occasion 
question  the  smuggest  institution  and  look 
askance  upon  the  most  ancient  habit.  I 
would  have  him  throw  a  doubt  upon  Newton 
and  defy  Darwin!  I  would  have  him  look 
straight  at  men  and  nature  with  his  own  eyes. 
He  should  acknowledge  no  common  gods 
unless  he  proved  them  gods  for  himself. 
The  "equality  of  men"  which  we  worship: 
is  there  not  a  higher  inequality?  The  ma- 
terial progress  which  we  deify:  is  it  real 
progress  ?  Democracy  —  is  it  after  all  bet- 
ter than  monarchy?  I  would  have  him 
question  the  canons  of  art,  literature,  music, 
morals :  so  will  he  continue  young  and  useful ! 
And  yet  sometimes  I  ask  myself.  What  do 
I  travel  for?     Why  all  this  excitement  and 


54  ADVENTURES  IN 

eagerness  of  inquiry?  What  is  it  that  I 
go  forth  to  find?  Am  I  better  for  keep- 
ing my  roads  open  than  my  neighbour  is 
who  travels  with  contentment  the  paths 
of  ancient  habit?  I  am  gnawed  by  the 
tooth  of  unrest  —  to  what  end  ?  Often  as 
[  travel  I  ask  myself  that  question  and  I 
have  never  had  a  convincing  answer.  I  am 
looking  for  something  I  cannot  find.  My 
Open  Road  is  open,  too,  at  the  end!  What 
is  it  that  drives  a  man  onward,  that  scourges 
him  with  unanswered  questions!  We  only 
know  that  we  are  driven;  we  do  not  know 
who  drives.  We  travel,  we  inquire,  we 
look,  we  work  —  only  knowing  that  these 
activities  satisfy  a  certain  deep  and  secret 
demand  within  us.  We  have  Faith  that 
there  is  a  Reason:  and  is  there  not  a  pres- 
ent Joy  in  following  the  Open  Road  ? 

"And  0  the  joy  that  is  nevei  won, 
But  follows  and  follows  the  journeying  sun." 

And  at  the  end  of  the  day  the  Open  Road, 
if  we  follow  it  with  wisdom  as  well  as  fervour, 
will  bring  us  safely  home  again.  For  after 
all  the  Open  Road  must  return  to  the  Beaten 
Path.     The    Open    Road    is    for    adventure; 


FRIENDSHIP  55 

and  adventure  is  not  the  food  of  life,  but 
the  spice. 

Thus  I  came  back  this  evening  from  riot- 
ing in  my  fields.  As  I  walked  down  the 
lane  I  heard  the  soft  tinkle  of  a  cowbell, 
a  certain  earthy  exhalation,  as  of  work, 
came  out  of  the  bare  fields,  the  duties  of 
my  daily  life  crowded  upon  me  bringing  a 
pleasant  calmness  of  spirit,  and  I  said  to 
myself: 

"Lord  be  praised  for  that  which  is  com- 


mon.'1 


And  after  I  had  done  my  chores  I  came 
in,  hungry,  to  my  supper. 


jKi  .v. 


ON  BEING  WHERE  YOU  BELONG 


■^z 


IV 


ON   BEING   WHERE   YOU   BELONG 


Sunday  Morning,  May  20th. 

ON  FRIDAY  I  began  planting  my  corn. 
For  many  days  previously  I  went 
out  every  morning  at  sun-up,  in  the  clear, 
sharp  air,  and  thrust  my  hand  deep  down 
in  the  soil  of  the  field.  I  do  not  know  that 
I  followed  any  learned  agricultural  rule, 
but  somehow  I  liked  to  do  it.  It  has  seemed 
reasonable  to  me,  instead  of  watching  for 
a  phase  of  the  moon  (for  I  do  not  cultivate 
the  moon),  to  inquire  of  the  earth  itself. 
For  many  days  I  had  no  response;  the  soil 

59 


60  ADVENTURES  IN 

was  of  an  icy,  moist  coldness,  as  of  death. 
"I  am  not  ready  yet,"  it  said;  "I  have  no£ 
rested  my  time." 

Early  in  the  week  we  had  a  day  or  two 
of  soft  sunshine,  of  fecund  warmth,  to  which 
the  earth  lay  open,  willing,  passive.  On 
Thursday  morning,  though  a  white  frost 
silvered  the  harrow  ridges,  when  I  thrust 
my  hand  into  the  soil  I  felt,  or  seemed  to 
feel,  a  curious  response:  a  strange  answer- 
ing of  life  to  life.  The  stone  had  been  rolled 
from  the  sepulchre! 

And  I  knew  then  that  the  destined  time 
had  arrived  for  my  planting.  That  after- 
noon I  marked  out  my  corn-field,  driving 
the  mare  to  my  home-made  wooden  marker, 
carefully  observant  of  the  straightness  of 
the  rows;  for  a  crooked  corn-row  is  a  sort 
of  immorality.  I  brought  down  my  seed 
corn  from  the  attic,  where  it  had  hung  wait- 
ing all  winter,  each  ear  suspended  separately 
by  the  white,  up-turned  husks.  They  were 
the  selected  ears  of  last  year's  crop,  even  of 
size  throughout,  smooth  of  kernel,  with  tips 
well-covered  —  the  perfect  ones  chosen 
among  many  to  perpetuate  the  highest  ex- 
cellencies  of  the   crop.     I   carried   them   to 


FRIENDSHIP  61 

the  shed  next  my  barn,  and  shelled  them 
out  in  my  hand  machine:  as  fine  a  basket 
of  yellow  dent  seed  as  a  man  ever  saw.  I 
have  listened  to  endless  discussions  as  to 
the  relative  merits  of  flint  and  dent  corn. 
I  here  cast  my  vote  emphatically  for  yellow 
dent:  it  is  the  best  Nature  can  do! 

I  found  my  seed-bag  hanging,  dusty,  over 
a  rafter  in  the  shed,  and  Harriet  sewed  a 
buckle  on  the  strip  that  goes  around  the 
waist.     I  cleaned  and  sharpened  my  hoe. 

"Now,"  I  said  to  myself,  "give  me  a  good 
day  and  I  am  ready  to  plant." 

The  sun  was  just  coming  up  on  Friday, 
looking  over  the  trees  into  a  world  of  misty 
and  odorous  freshness.  When  I  climbed 
the  fence  I  dropped  down  in  the  grass  at  the 
far  corner  of  the  field.  I  had  looked  for- 
ward this  year  with  pleasure  to  the  planting 
of  a  small  field  by  hand  —  the  adventure  of  it 
—  after  a  number  of  years  of  horse  plant- 
ing (with  Horace's  machine)  of  far  larger 
fields.  There  is  an  indescribable  satisfac- 
tion in  answering,  "Present!"  to  the  roll- 
call  of  Nature:  to  plant  when  the  earth 
is  ready,  to  cultivate  when  the  soil  begins 
to  bake   and   harden,   to   harvest  when   the 


62  ADVENTURES  IN 

grain  is  fully  ripe.  It  is  the  chief  joy  of  him 
who  lives  close  to  the  soil  that  he  comes,  in 
time,  to  beat  in  consonance  with  the  pulse 
of  the  earth;  its  seasons  become  his  seasons; 
its  life  his  life. 

Behold  me,  then,  with  a  full  seed-bag  sus- 
pended before  me,  buckled  both  over  the 
shoulders  and  around  the  waist,  a  shiny  hoe 
in  my  hand  (the  scepter  of  my  dominion), 
a  comfortable,  rested  feeling  in  every  muscle 
of  my  body,  standing  at  the  end  of  the  first 
long  furrow  there  in  my  field  on  Friday 
morning  —  a  whole  spring  day  open  before 
me!  At  that  moment  I  would  not  have 
changed  my  place  for  the  place  of  any  king, 
prince,  or  president. 

At  first  I  was  awkward  enough,  for  it  has 
been  a  long  time  since  I  have  done  much 
hand  planting;  but  I  soon  fell  into  the 
rhythmic  swing  of  the  sower,  the  sure,  even, 
accurate  step;  the  turn  of  the  body  and  the 
flexing  of  the  wrists  as  the  hoe  strikes  down- 
ward; the  deftly  hollowed  hole;  the  swing 
of  the  hand  to  the  seed-bag;  the  sure  fall 
of  the  kernels;  the  return  of  the  hoe;  the 
final  determining  pressure  of  the  soil 
upon    the    seed.     One    falls     into     it    and 


FRIENDSHIP  63 

follows    it  as    he   would    follow  the    rhythm 
of  a  march. 

Even  the  choice  of  seed  becomes  auto- 
matic, instinctive.  At  first  there  is  a  con- 
scious counting  by  the  fingers  —  five  seeds: 

One  for  the  blackbird, 

One  for  the  crow, 
One  for  the  cutworm, 

Two  to  grow. 

But  after  a  time  one  ceases  to  count  five,  and 
feels  five,  instinctively  rejecting  a  monstrous 
six,  or  returning  to  complete  an  inferior  four. 

I  wonder  if  you  know  the  feel  of  the  fresh, 
60ft  soil,  as  it  answers  to  your  steps,  giving 
a  little,  responding  a  little  (as  life  always 
does)  —  and  is  there  not  something  end- 
lessly good  and  pleasant  about  it?  And 
the  movement  of  the  arms  and  shoulders, 
falling  easily  into  that  action  and  reaction 
which  yields  the  most  service  to  the  least 
energy!  Scientists  tell  us  that  the  awkward 
young  eagle  has  a  wider  wing-stretch  than 
the  old,  skilled  eagle.  So  the  corn  planter, 
at  noon,  will  do  his  work  with  half  the  ex- 
pended energy  of  the  early  morning:  he  at- 
tains   the    artistry    of    motion.     And    quite 


64  ADVENTURES  IN   FRIENDSHIP 

beyond  and  above  this  physical  accomplish- 
ment is  the  ever-present,  scarcely  conscious 
sense  of  reward,  repayment,  which  one  ex- 
periences as  he  covers  each  planting  of  seeds. 
As  the  sun  rose  higher  the  mists  stole 
secretly  away,  first  toward  the  lower  brook- 
hollows,  finally  disappearing  entirely;  the 
morning  coolness  passed,  the  tops  of  the 
furrows  dried  out  to  a  lighter  brown,  and 
still  I  followed  the  long  planting.  At  each 
return  I  refilled  my  seed-bag,  and  sometimes 
I  drank  from  the  jug  of  water  which  I  had 
hidden  in  the  grass.  Often  I  stood  a  mo- 
ment by  the  fence  to  look  up  and  around 
me.  Through  the  clear  morning  air  I  could 
hear  the  roosters  crowing  vaingloriously 
from  the  barnyard,  and  the  robins  were 
singing,  and  occasionally  from  the  distant 
road  I  heard  the  rumble  of  a  wagon.  I 
noted  the  slow  kitchen  smoke  from  Horace's 
chimney,  the  tip  of  which  I  could  just  see 
over  the  hill  from  the  margin  of  my  field 
—  and  my  own  pleasant  home  among  its 
trees  —  and  my  barn  —  all  most  satisfying 
to  look  upon.  Then  I  returned  to  the  sweat 
and  heat  of  the  open  field,  and  to  the  steady 
swing  of  the  sowing. 


66  ADVENTURES   IN 

Joy  of  life  seems  to  me  to  arise  from  a 
sense  of  being  where  one  belongs,  as  I  feel 
right  here;  of  being  foursquare  with  the 
life  we  have  chosen.  All  the  discontented 
people  I  know  are  trying  sedulously  to  be 
something  they  are  not,  to  do  something 
they  cannot  do.  In  the  advertisements  of 
the  county  paper  I  find  men  angling  for 
money  by  promising  to  make  women  beau- 
tiful and  men  learned  or  rich  —  overnight 
• —  by  inspiring  good  farmers  and  carpenters 
to  be  poor  doctors  and  lawyers.  It  is  curious, 
3s  it  not,  with  what  skill  we  will  adapt  our 
sandy  land  to  potatoes  and  grow  our  beans 
in  clay,  and  with  how  little  wisdom  we  farm 
the  soils  of  our  own  natures.  We  try  to 
grow  poetry  where  plumbing  would  thrive 
grandly!  —  not  knowing  that  plumbing  is 
as  important  and  honourable  and  necessary 
to  this  earth  as  poetry. 

I  understand  it  perfectly;  I  too,  followed 
long  after  false  gods.  I  thought  I  must 
rush  forth  to  see  the  world,  I  must  forth- 
with become  great,  rich,  famous;  and  I 
hurried  hither  and  thither,  seeking  I  knew 
not  what.  Consuming  my  days  with  the 
infinite   distract:ons   of   travel,    I    missed,    a? 


FRIENDSHIP  67 

one  who  attempts  two  occupations  at  once, 
the  sure  satisfaction  of  either.  Beholding 
the  exteriors  of  cities  and  of  men,  I  was  de- 
ceived with  shadows;  my  life  took  no  hold 
upon  that  which  is  deep  and  true.  Colour 
I  got,  and  form,  and  a  superficial  aptitude 
in  judging  by  symbols.  It  was  like  the 
study  of  a  science:  a  hasty  review  gives  one 
the  general  rules,  but  it  requires  a  far  pro- 
founder  insight  to  know  the  fertile  exceptions. 

But  as  I  grow  older  I  remain  here  on  my 
farm,  and  wait  quietly  for  the  world  to  pass 
this  way.  My  oak  and  I,  we  wait,  and  we 
are  satisfied.  Here  we  stand  among  our 
clods;  our  feet  are  rooted  deep  within  the 
soil.  The  wind  blows  upon  us  and  delights 
us,  the  rain  falls  and  refreshes  us,  the  sun 
dries  and  sweetens  us.  We  are  become 
calm,  slow,  strong;- so  we  measure  recti- 
tudes and  regard  essentials,  my  oak  and  I. 

I  would  be  a  hard  person  to  dislodge  or 
uproot  from  this  spot  of  earth.  I  belong  here; 
I  grow  here.  I  like  to  think  of  the  old  fable 
of  the  wrestler  of  Irassa.  For  I  am  veri- 
tably that  Anteus  who  was  the  wrestler  of 
Irassa  and  drew  his  strength  from  the  ground. 
So  long  as  I  tread  the  long  furrows  of  my 


68  ADVENTURES  IN 

planting,  with  my  feet  upon  the  earth,  I 
am*  invincible  and  unconquerable.  Her- 
cules himself,  though  he  comes  upon  me  in 
the  guise  of  Riches,  or  Fame,  or  Power, 
cannot  overthrow  me  —  save  as  he  takes  me 
away  from  this  soil.  For  at  each  step  my 
strength  is  renewed.  I  forget  weariness, 
old  age  has  no  dread  for  me. 

Some  there  may  be  who  think  I  talk 
dreams;  they  do  not  know  reality.  My 
friend,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  you  are 
unhappy  because  you  have  lost  connection 
with  life?  Because  yo.ur  feet  are  not  some- 
where firm  planted  upon  the  soil  of  reality? 
Contentment,  and  indeed  usefulness,  comes 
as  the  infallible  result  of  great  acceptances, 
great  humilities  —  of  not  trying  to  make 
ourselves  this  or  that  (to  conform  to  some 
dramatized  version  of  ourselves),  but  of 
surrendering  ourselves  to  the  fullness  of  life 
—  of  letting  life  flow  through  us.  To  be 
used!  —  that  is  the  sublimest  thing  we  know. 

It  is  a  distinguishing  mark  of  greatness 
that  it  has  a  tremendous  hold  upon  real 
things.  I  have  seen  men  who  seemed  to 
have  behind  them,  or  rather  within  them, 
whole  societies,  states,  institutions :   how  they 


FRIENDSHIP  69 

come  at  us,  like  Atlas  bearing  the  world! 
For  they  act  not  with  their  own  feebleness, 
but  with  a  strength  as  of  the  Whole  of  Life. 
They  speak,  and  the  words  are  theirs,  but 
the  voice  is  the  Voice  of  Mankind. 

I  don't  know  what  to  call  it:  being  right 
with  God  or  right  with  life.  It  is  strangely 
the  same  thing;  and  God  is  not  particular 
as  to  the  name  we  know  him  by,  so  long  as 
we  know  Him.  Musing  upon  these  secret 
things,  I  seem  to  understand  what  the  theo- 
logians in  their  darkness  have  made  so 
obscure.  Is  it  not  just  this  at-one-ment  with 
life  which  sweetens  and  saves  us  all? 

In  all  these  writings  I  have  glorified  the 
life  of  the  soil  until  I  am  ashamed.  I  have 
loved  it  because  it  saved  me.  The  farm  for 
me,  I  decided  long  ago,  is  the  only  place 
where  I  can  flow  strongly  and  surely.  But 
to  you,  my  friend,  life  may  present  a  wholly 
different  aspect,  variant  necessities.  Know- 
ing what  I  have  experienced  in  the  city,  I 
have  sometimes  wondered  at  the  happy 
(even  serene)  faces  I  have  seen  in  crowded 
streets.'  There  must  be,  I  admit,  those  who 
can  flow  and  be  at  one  with  that  life,  too. 
And  let  them  handle  their  money,  and  make 


7o  ADVENTURES  IN 

shoes,  and  sew  garments,  and  write  in  ledgers 
—  if  that  completes  and  contents  them.  I 
have  no  quarrel  with  any  one  of  them.  It 
is,  after  all,  a  big  and  various  world,  where 
men  can  be  happy  in  many  ways. 

For  every  man  is  a  magnet,  highly  and 
singularly  sensitized.  Some  draw  to  them 
fields  and  woods  and  hills,  and  are  drawn 
in  return;  and  some  draw  swift  streets  and 
the  riches  which  are  known  to  cities.  It  is 
not  of  importance  what  we  draw,  but  that 
we  really  draw.  And  the  greatest  tragedy 
in  life,  as  I  see  it,  is  that  thousands  of  men 
and  women  never  have  the  opportunity  to 
draw  with  freedom;  but  they  exist  in  weari- 
ness and  labour,  and  are  drawn  upon  like 
inanimate  objects  by  those  who  live  in  un- 
happy idleness.  They  do  not  farm:  they 
are  farmed.  But  that  is  a  question  foreign 
to  present  considerations.  We  may  be  as- 
sured, if  we  draw  freely,  like  the  magnet 
of  steel  which  gathers  its  iron  filings  about 
it  in  beautiful  and  symmetrical  forms,  that 
the  things  which  we  attract  will  also  become 
symmetrical  and  harmonious  with  our  lives. 

Thus  flowing  with  life,  self-surrendering 
to  life,  a  man  becomes  indispensable  to  life; 


FRIENDSHIP  71 

he  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the  conduct 
of  this  universe.  And  it  is  the  feeling  of 
oeing  necessary,  of  being  desired,  flowing  into 
a  man  that  produces  the  satisfaction  of  con- 
tentment.    Often  and  often  I  think  to  myself: 

These  fields  have  need  of  me;  mv  horse 
whinnies  when  he  hears  my  step;  my  dog 
barks  a  welcome.  These,  my  neighbours, 
are  glad  of  me.  The  corn  comes  up  fresh 
and  green  to  my  planting;  my  buckwheat 
bears  richly.  I  am  indispensable  in  this , 
place.  What  is  more  satisfactory  to  the 
human  heart  than  to  be  needed  and  to 
know  we  are  needed?  One  line  in  the  Book 
of  Chronicles,  when  I  read  it,  flies  up  at  me 
out  of  the  printed  page  as  though  it  were 
alive,  conveying  newly  the  age-old  agony  of 
a  misplaced  man.  After  relating  the  short 
and  evil  history  of  Jehoram,  King  of  Judah, 
the  account  ends  —  with  the  appalling  terse- 
ness which  often  crowns  the  dramatic  clim- 
axes of  that  matchless  writing: 

"And  (he)  departed  without  being  de- 
sired." 

Without  being  desired!  I  have  wondered 
if  any  man  was  ever  cursed  with  a  more 
terrible  epitaph! 


72   ADVENTURES  IN   FRIENDSHIP 

And  so  I  planted  my  corn;  and  in  the 
evening  I  felt  the  dumb  weariness  of  physical 
toil.  Many  times  in  older  days  I  have 
known  the  wakeful  nerve-weariness  of  cities. 
This  was  not  it.  It  was  the  weariness 
which,  after  supper,  seizes  upon  one's  limbs 
with  half-aching  numbness.  I  sat  down 
on  my  porch  with  a  nameless  content.  I 
looked  off  across  the  countryside.  I  saw 
the  evening  shadows  fall,  and  the  moon 
come  up.  And  I  wanted  nothing  I  had  not. 
And  finally  sleep  swept  in  resistless  waves 
upon  me  and  I  stumbled  up  to  bed  —  and 
sank  into  dreamless  slumber. 


'  .1*.^, 


THE   STORY  OF  ANNA 


\ 


«5^s%>; 


V 


THE  STORY  OF  ANNA, 

IT  IS  the  prime  secret  of  the  Open  Road 
(but  I  may  here  tell  it  aloud)  that  you 
are  to  pass  nothing,  reject  nothing,  despise 
nothing  upon  this  earth.  As  you  travel, 
many  things  both  great  and  small  will  come 
to  your  attention;  you  are  to  regard  all 
with  open  eyes  and  a  heart  of  simplicity. 
Believe  that  everything  belongs  somewhere; 
each  thing  has  its  fitting  and  luminous  place 
within  this  mosaic  of  human  life.  The  True 
Road  is  not  open  to  those  who  withdraw  the 
skirts  of  intolerance  or  lift  the  chin  of  pride. 
Rejecting  the  least  of  those  who  are  called 
common  or  unclean,  it  is  (curiously)  you 
yourself  that  you  reject.  If  you  despise 
that  which   is  ugly  you   do  not  know  that 

75 


76  ADVENTURES  IN 

which  is  beautiful.  For  what  is  beauty 
but  completeness?  The  roadside  beggar  be- 
longs here,  too;  and  the  idiot  boy  who 
wanders  idly  in  the  open  fields;  and  the  girl 
who  withholds  (secretly)  the  name  of  the 
father  of  her  child. 

I  remember  as  distinctly  as  though  it 
happened  yesterday  the  particular  evening 
three  years  ago  when  I  saw  the  Scotch 
Preacher  come  hurrying  up  the  road  toward 
my  house.  It  was  June.  I  had  come  out 
after  supper  to  sit  on  my  porch  and  look 
out  upon  the  quiet  fields.  I  remember  the 
grateful  cool  of  the  evening  air,  and  the  scents 
rising  all  about  me  from  garden  and  roadway 
and  orchard.  I  was  tired  after  the  work  of 
the  day  and  sat  with  a  sort  of  complete  com- 
fort and  contentment  which  comes  only  to 
those  who  work  long  in  the  quiet  of  outdoor 
places.  I  remember  the  thought  came  to  me, 
as  it  has  come  in  various  forms  so  many  times, 
that  in  such  a  big  and  beautiful  world  there 
should  be  no  room  for  the  fever  of  unhappi- 
ness  or  discontent. 

And  then  I  saw  McAlway  coming  up  the 
road.     I  knew  instantly  that  something  was 


FRIENDSHIP  77 

wrong.  His  step,  usually  so  deliberate,  was 
rapid;  there  was  agitation  in  every  line  oi 
his  countenance.  I  walked  down  through 
the  garden  to  the  gate  and  met  him  there. 
Being  somewhat  out  of  breath  he  did  not 
speak  at  once.     So  I  said: 

"It  is  not,  after  all,  as  bad  as  you 
anticipate." 

"David,':  he  said,  and  I  think  I  never 
heard  him  speak  more  seriously,  "it  is  bad 
enough." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm. 

"Can  you  hitch  up  your  horse  and  come 
with  me  —  right  away?" 

McAlway  helped  with  the  buckles  and  said 
not  a  word.  In  ten  minutes,  certainly  not 
more,  we  were  driving  together  down  the 
lane. 

"Do  you  know  a  family  named  Williama 
living  on  the  north  road  beyond  the  three 
corners?'    asked  the  Scotch  Preacher. 

Instantly  a  vision  of  a  somewhat 
dilapidated  house,  standing  not  unpic- 
turesquely  among  ill-kept  fields,  leaped  to 
my  mind. 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "but  I  can't  remember 
any  of  the  family  except  a  gingham  girl  with 


78  ADVENTURES  IN 

yellow  hair.  I  used  to  see  her  on  her  way 
to  school." 

"A  girl!"  he  said,  with  a  curious  note  in 
his  voice;    "but  a  woman  now." 

He  paused  a  moment;  then  he  continued 
sadly: 

"As  I  grow  older  it  seems  a  shorter  and 
shorter  step  between  child  and  child.  David, 
she  has  a  child  of  her  own." 

"But  I  didn't  know  —  she  isn't " 

"A  woods  child,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher. 

I  could  not  find  a  word  to  say.  I  remember 
the  hush  of  the  evening  there  in  the  country 
road,  the  soft  light  fading  in  the  fields.  I 
heard  a  whippoorwill  calling  from  the  dis- 
tant woods. 

"They  made  it  hard  for  her,'"  said  the 
Scotch  Preacher,  "especially  her  older 
brother.  About  four  o'clock  this  afternoon 
she  ran  away,  taking  her  baby  with  her. 
They  found  a  note  saying  they  would  never 
again  see  her  alive.  Her  mother  says  she 
went  toward  the  river." 

I  touched  up  the  mare.  For  a  few  minutes 
the  Scotch  Preacher  sat  silent,  thinking. 
Then  he  said,  with  a  peculiar  tone  of  kind- 
ness in  his  voice. 


FRIENDSHIP  79 

"She  was  a  child,  just  a  child.  When  I 
talked  with  her  yesterday  she  was  perfectly 
docile  and  apparently  contented.  I  can- 
not imagine  her  driven  to  such  a  deed  of 
desperation.  I  asked  her:  'Why  did  you 
do  it,  Anna?'  She  answered,  'I  don't  know: 
I  —  I  don't  know!'  Her  reply  was  not 
defiant  or  remorseful:  it  was  merely  explana- 
tory." 

He  remained  silent  again  for  a  long  time. 

uDavid,':  he  said  finally,  "I  sometimes 
think  we  don't  know  half  as  much  about 
human  nature  as  we  —  we  preach.  If  we 
did,  I  think  we'd  be  more  careful  in  our 
judgments." 

He  said  it  slowly,  tentatively:  I  knew 
it  came  straight  from  his  heart.  It  was  this 
spirit,  more  than  the  title  he  bore,  far  more 
than  the  sermons  he  preached,  that  made 
him  in  reality  the  minister  of  our  community. 
He  went  about  thinking  that,  after  all,  he 
didn't  know  much,  and  that  therefore  he 
must  be  kind. 

As  I  drove  up  to  the  bridge,  the  Scotch 
Preacher  put  one  hand  on  the  reins.  I 
stopped  the  horse  on  the  embankment  and 
we  both  stepped  out. 


80  ADVENTURES  IN 

"She  would  undoubtedly  have  come  down 
this  road  to  the  river,"  McAlway  said  in  a 
low  voice. 

It  was  growing  dark.  When  I  walked 
out  on  the  bridge  my  legs  were  strangely 
unsteady;  a  weight  seemed  pressing  on  my 
breast  so  that  mv  breath  came  hard.     We 

m 

looked  down  into  the  shallow,  placid  water: 
the  calm  of  the  evening  was  upon  it;  the 
middle  of  the  stream  was  like  a  rumpled 
glassy  ribbon,  but  the  edges,  deep-shaded 
by  overhanging  trees,  were  of  a  mysterious 
darkness.  In  all  my  life  I  think  I  never 
experienced  such  a  degree  of  silence  —  of 
breathless,  oppressive  silence.  It  seemed  as 
if,  at  any  instant,  it  must  burst  into  some 
fearful  excess  of  sound. 

Suddenly  we  heard  a  voice  —  in  half- 
articulate  exclamation.  I  turned,  every 
nerve  strained  to  the  uttermost.  A 
figure,  seemingly  materialized  out  of  dark- 
ness and  silence,  was  moving  on  the 
bridge. 

"Oh!  —  McAlway,':  a  voice  said. 

Then  I  heard  the  Scotch  Preacher  in  low 
tones : 

"Have  you  seen  Anna  WTilliams?" 


FRIENDSHIP  *       8 1 

"She    is     at     the    house,"  answered    the 


voice 


Get  your  horse,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher. 

I  ran  back  and  led  the  mare  across  the 
bridge  (how  I  remember,  in  that  silence, 
the  thunder  of  her  hoofs  on  the  loose  boards !) 
Just  at  the  top  of  the  little  hill  leading  up 
from  the  bridge  the  two  men  turned  in  at  a 
gate.  I  followed  quickly  and  the  three  of 
us  entered  the  house  together.  I  remember 
the  musty,  warm,  shut-in  odour  of  the  front 
room.  I  heard  the  faint  crv  of  a  child.  The 
room  was  dim,  with  a  single  kerosene  lamp, 
but  I  saw  three  women  huddled  by  the  stove, 
in  which  a  new  fire  was  blazing.  Two  looked 
up  as  we  entered,  with  feminine  instinct 
moving  aside  to  hide  the  form  of  the 
third. 

"  She's  all  right,  as  soon  as  she  gets  dry," 
one  of  them  said. 

The  other  woman  turned  to  us  half  com- 
plainingly: 

"She  ain't  said  a  single  word  since  we  got 
her  in  here,  and  she  won't  let  go  of  the  baby 
for  a  minute." 

"She  don't  cry,"  said  the  other,  "but 
just  sits  there  like  a  statue." 


82  ADVENTURES  IN 

McAlway  stepped  forward  and  said: 

"  Well  —  Anna?" 

The  girl  looked  up  for  the  first  time.  The 
light  shone  full  in  her  face:  a  look  I  shall 
never  forget.  Yes,  it  was  the  girl  I  had  seen 
so  often,  and  yet  not  the  girl.  It  was  the 
same  childish  face,  but  all  marked  upon  with 
inexplicable  wan  lines  of  a  certain  mysterious 
womanhood.  It  was  childish,  but  bearing 
upon  it  an  inexpressible  look  of  half-sad 
dignity,  that  stirred  a  man's  heart  to  its 
profoundest  depths.  And  there  was  in  it, 
too,  as  I  have  thought  since,  a  something 
I  have  seen  in  the  faces  of  old,  wise  men:  a 
light  (how  shall  I  explain  it?)  as  of  experience 
—  of  boundless  experience.  Her  hair  hung 
in  wavy  dishevelment  about  her  head  and 
shoulders,  and  she  clung  passionately  to 
the  child  in  her  arms. 

The  Scotch  Preacher  had  said,  "Well  — 
Anna?'       She  looked  up  and  replied: 

"They  were  going  to  take  my  baby 
away." 

"Were  they!'  exclaimed  McAlway  in  his 
hearty  voice.  "Well,  we'll  never  permit 
that.  Who's  got  a  better  right  to  the  baby 
than  you,  I'd  like  to  know?" 


FRIENDSHIP  83 

Without  turning  her  head,  the  tears 
came  to  her  eyes  and  rolled  unheeded  down 
her  face. 

"Yes,  sir,  Dr.  McAlway,"  the  man  said, 
"I  was  coming  across  the  bridge  with  the 
cows  when  I  see  her  standing  there  in  the 
water,  her  skirts  all  floating  around  her. 
She  was  hugging  the  baby  up  to  her  face 
and  saying  over  and  over,  just  like  this: 
'I  don't  dare!  Oh,  I  don't  dare!  But  I  must. 
I  must.'  She  was  sort  of  singin'  the  words: 
'I  don't  dare,  I  don't  dare,  but  I  must.'  I 
jumped  the  railing  and  run  down  to  the  bank 
of  the  river.  And  I  says,  'Come  right  out 
o'  there';  and  she  turned  and  come  out 
just  as  gentle  as  a  child,  and  I  brought  her 
up  here  to  the  house."     . 

It  seemed  perfectly  natural  at  this  time 
that  I  should  take  the  girl  and  her  child 
home  to  Harriet.  She  would  not  go  back 
to  her  own  home,  though  we  tried  to  persuade 
her,  and  the  Scotch  Preacher's  wife  was 
visiting  in  the  city,  so  she  could  not  go  there. 
But  after  I  found  myself  driving  homeward 
with   the   girl  —  while  McAlway  went  over 


84  ADVENTURES  IN 

the  hill  to  tell  her  family  —  the  mood  of 
action  passed.  It  struck  me  suddenly. 
"What  will  Harriet  say?".  Upon  which  my 
heart  sank  curiously,  and  refused  to  resume 
its  natural  position. 

In  the  past  I  had  brought  her  tramps  and 
peddlers  and  itinerant  preachers,  all  of  whom 
she  had  taken  in  with  patience  —  but  this, 
I  knew,  was  different.  For  a  few  minutes 
I  wished  devoutly  I  were  in  Timbuctu 
or  some  other  far  place.  And  then  the 
absurdity  of  the  situation  struck  me 
all  at  once,  and  I  couldn't  help  laughing 
aloud. 

"It's  a  tremendous  old  world,"  I  said  to 
myself.  "Why,  anything  may  happen  any- 
where!" 

The  girl  stirred,  but  did  not  speak.  I  was> 
afraid  I  had  frightened  her. 

"Are  you  cold?"  I  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  she  answered  faintly. 

I  could  think  of  nothing  whatever  to  say, 
so  I  said  it: 

"Are  you  fond  of  hot  corn-meal  mush?' 

"Yes,  sir,"  very  faintly. 

"With  cream  on  it  —  rich  yellow  cream  — 
and  plenty  of  su^ar?" 


FRIENDSHIP  8s 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  I'll  bet  a  nickel  that's  what  we're 
going  to  get!" 

"Yes,   sir." 

We  drove  up  the  lane  and  stopped  at  the 
yard  gate.  Harriet  opened  the  door.  I 
led  the  small  dark  figure  into  the  warmth 
and  light  of  the  kitchen.  She  stood  help- 
lessly holding  the  baby  tight  in  her  arms  — 
as  forlorn  and  dishevelled  a  figure  as  one 
could  well  imagine. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "this  is  Anna  Williams." 

Harriet  gave  me  her  most  tremendous 
look.  It  seemed  to  me  at  that  moment  that 
it  wasn't  my  sister  Harriet  at  all  that  I  was 
facing,  but  some  stranger  and  much  greater 
person  than  I  had  ever  known.  Every  man 
has,  upon  occasion,  beheld  his  wife,  his  sis- 
ter, his  mother  even,  become  suddenly  un- 
known, suddenly  commanding,  suddenly 
greater  than  himself  or  any  other  man.  For 
a  woman  possesses  the  occult  power  of  be- 
coming instantly,  miraculously,  the  Accumu- 
lated and  Personified  Customs,  Morals  and 
Institutions  of  the  Ages.  At  this  moment, 
then,  I  felt  myself  slowly  but  surely  shrink- 
ing and  shriveling  up.     It  is  a  most  uncom- 


86  ADVENTURES  IN 

fortable  sensation  to  find  one's  self  face  to 
face  with  Society-at-large.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances I  always  know  what  to  do.  I 
run.  So  I  clapped  my  hat  on  my  head,  de- 
clared that  the  mare  must  be  unharnessed 
immediately,  and  started  for  the  door.  Har- 
riet followed.  Once  outside  she  closed  the 
door  behind  her. 

"David,  David,  DAVID,"  she  said. 

It  occurred  to  me  now  for  the  first  time 
(which  shows  how  stupid  I  am)  that  Harriet 
had  already  heard  the  story  of  Anna  Williams. 
And  it  had  gained  so  much  bulk  and  robust- 
ity  in  travelling,  as  such  stories  do  in  the 
country,  that  I  have  no  doubt  the  poor  child 
seemed  a  sort  of  devastating  monster  of 
iniquity.  How  the  country  scourges  those 
who  do  not  walk  the  beaten  path!  In  the 
careless  city  such  a  one  may  escape  to  un- 
familiar streets  and  consort  with  unfamiliar 
people,  and  still  find  a  way  of  life,  but  here 
in  the  country  the  eye  of  Society  never 
sleeps! 

For  a  moment  I  was  appalled  by  what  I 
had  done.  Then  I  thought  of  the  Harriet 
I  knew  so  well:  the  inexhaustible  heart  of 
her.     With    a    sudden    inspiration    I   opened 


FRIENDSHIP  87 

the  kitchen  door  and  we  both  looked  in. 
The  girl  stood  motionless  just  where  I  left 
her:    an   infinitely   pathetic   figure. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "that  girl  is  hungry  — 
and  cold." 

Well,  it  worked.  Instantly  Harriet  ceased 
to  be  Society-at-Large  and  became  the  Har- 
riet I  know,  the  Harriet  of  infinite  compassion 
for  all  weak  creatures.  When  she  had  gone 
in  I  pulled  my  hat  down  and  went  straight 
for  the  barn.  I  guess  I  know  when  it's 
wise  to  be  absent  from  places. 

I  unharnessed  the  mare,  and  watered  and 
fed  her;  I  climbed  up  into  the  loft  and  put 
down  a  rackful  of  hay;  I  let  the  cows  out 
into  the  pasture  and  set  up  the  bars.  And 
then  I  stood  by  the  gate  and  looked  up 
into  the  clear  June  sky.  No  man,  I  think, 
can  remain  long  silent  under  the  stars,  with 
the  brooding,  mysterious  night  around 
about  him,  without  feeling,  poignantly, 
how  little  he  understands  anything,  how 
inconsequential  his  actions  are,  how  feeble  his 
judgments. 

And  I  thought  as  I  stood  there  how  many 
a  man,  deep  down  in  his  heart,  knows  to  a 
certainty  that  he  has  escaped  being  an  out- 


88  ADVENTURES  IN 

cast,  not  because  of  any  real  moral  strength 
or  resolution  of  his  own,  but  because  Society 
has  bolstered  him  up,  hedged  him  about 
with  customs  and  restrictions  until  he  never 
has  had  a  really  good  opportunity  to  trans- 
gress. And  some  do  not  sin  for  very  lack 
of  courage  and  originality:  they  are  help- 
lessly good.  How  many  men  in  their  vanity 
take  to  themselves  credit  for  the  built-up 
virtues  of  men  who  are  dead!  There  is  no 
cause  for  surprise  when  we  hear  of  a  "  fore- 
most citizen,"  the  "leader  in  all  good  works," 
suddenly  gone  wrong;  not  the  least  cause 
for  surprise.  For  it  was  not  he  that  was 
moral,  but  Society.  Individually  he  had 
never  been  tested,  and  when  the  test  came 
he  fell.  It  will  give  us  a  large  measure  of 
true  wisdom  if  we  stop  sometimes  when  we 
have  resisted  a  temptation  and  ask  ourselves 
why,  at  that  moment,  we  did  right  and  not 
wrong.  Was  it  the  deep  virtue,  the  high 
ideals  in  our  souls,  or  was  it  the  compulsion 
of  the  Society  around  us?  And  I  think 
most  of  us  will  be  astonished  to  discover 
what  fragile  persons  we  really  are  —  in 
ourselves. 

I     stopped    for    several    minutes     at    the 


FRIENDSHIP  89 

kitchen  door  before  I  dared  to  go  in.  Then 
I  stamped  vigorously  on  the  boards,  as  if 
I  had  come  rushing  up  to  the  house  with- 
out a  doubt  in  my  mind  —  I  even  whistled 
—  and  opened  the  door  jauntily.  And  had 
my  pains  for  nothing! 

The  kitchen  was  empty,  but  full  of  com- 
forting and  homelike  odours.  There  was 
undoubtedly  hot  mush  in  the  kettle.  A 
few  minutes  later  Harriet  came  down  the 
stairs.  She  held  up  one  finger  warningly. 
Her  face  was  transfigured. 

"David,':  she  whispered,  "the  baby's 
asleep." 

So  I  tiptoed  across  the  room.  She 
tiptoed  after  me.  Then  I  faced  about, 
and  we  both  stood  there  on  our  tiptoes, 
holding  our  breath  —  at  least  I  held 
mine. 

" David,"*  Harriet  whispered,  "did  you 
see  the  baby?" 

"No,"  I  whispered. 

"I  think  it's  the  finest  baby  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life." 

When  I  was  a  boy,  and  my  great-aunt, 
who  lived  for  many  years  in  a  little  room  with 


90  ADVENTURES  IN 

dormer  windows  at  the  top  of  my  father's 
house,  used  to  tell  me  stories  (the  best  1 
ever  heard),  I  was  never  content  with  the 
endings  of  them.  "What  happened  next?" 
I  remember  asking  a  hundred  times;  and  if 
I  did  not  ask  the  question  aloud  it  arose  at 
least  in  my  own  mind. 

If  I  were  writing  fiction  I  might  go  on 
almost  indefinitely  with  the  story  of  Anna; 
but  in  real  life  stories  have  a  curious  way  of 
coming  to  quick  fruition,  and  withering 
away  after  having  cast  the  seeds  of  their 
immortality. 

"Did  you  see  the  baby?"  Harriet  had 
asked.  She  said  no  word  about  Anna:  a 
BABY  had  come  into  the  world.  Already 
the  present  was  beginning  to  draw  the 
charitable  curtains  of  its  forgetfulness  across 
this  simple  drama;  already  Harriet  and  Anna 
and  all  the  rest  of  us  were  beginning  to  look 
to  the  "finest  baby  we  ever  saw  in  all  our 
lives." 

I  might,  indeed,  go  into  the  character  of 
Anna  and  the  whys  and  wherefores  of  her 
story;  but  there  is  curiously  little  that  is 
strange  or  unusual  about  it.  It  was  just 
Life.     A  few  days  with  us  worked  miracu- 


FRIENDSHIP  91 

lous  changes  in  the  girl;  like  some  stray 
kitten  brought  in  crying  from  the  cold,  she 
curled  herself  up  comfortably  there  in  our 
home,  purring  her  contentment.  She  was 
not  in  the  least  a  tragic  figure:  though  down 
deep  under  the  curves  and  dimples  of  youth 
there  was  something  finally  resistant,  or 
obstinate,  or  defiant  —  which  kept  its  counsel 
regarding   the   past. 

It  is  curious  how  acquaintanceship  miti- 
gates our  judgments.  We  classify  strangers 
into  whose  careers  the  newspapers  or  our 
friends  give  us  glimpses  as  "bad"  or  "good"; 
we  separate  humanity  into  inevitable  goat- 
hood  and  sheephood.  But  upon  closer  ac- 
quaintance a  man  comes  to  be  not  bad,  but 
Ebenezer  Smith  or  J.  Henry  Jones;  and  a 
woman  is  not  good,  but  Nellie  Morgan  or 
Mrs.  Arthur  Cadwalader.  Take  it  in  our 
own  cases.  Some  people,  knowing  just  a 
little  about  us,  might  call  us  pretty  good 
people;  but  we  know  that  down  in  our 
hearts  lurk  the  possibilities  (if  not  the  actual 
accomplishment)  of  all  sorts  of  things  not 
at  all  good.  We  are  exceedingly  charitable 
persons  —  toward  ourselves.  And  thus  we 
let  other  people  live! 


92  ADVENTURES  IN 

The  other  day,  at  Harriet's  suggestion, 
I  drove  to  town  by  the  upper  road,  passing 
the  Williams  place.  The  old  lady  has  a 
passion  for  hollyhocks.  A  ragged  row  of 
them  borders  the  dilapidated  picket  fence 
behind  which,  crowding  up  to  the  sociable 
road,  stands  the  house.  As  I  drive  that  way 
it  always  seems  to  look  out  at  me  like  some 
half-earnest  worker,  inviting  a  chat  about 
the  weather  or  the  county  fair;  hence,  prob- 
ably, its  good-natured  dilapidation.  At  the 
gate  I  heard  a  voice,  and  a  boy  about  three 
years  old,  in  a  soiled  gingham  apron,  a  sturdy, 
blue-eyed  little  chap,  whose  face  was  still 
eloquent  of  his  recent  breakfast,  came  run- 
ning to  meet  me.  I  stopped  the  mare.  A 
moment  later  a  woman  was  at  the  gate  be- 
tween the  rows  of  hollyhocks;  when  she 
saw  me  she  began  hastily  to  roll  down  her 
sleeves. 

"Why,  Mr.  Grayson!" 

"How's  the  boy,  Anna?" 

And  it  was  the  cheerful  talk  we  had 
there  by  the  roadside,  and  the  sight  of 
the  sturdy  boy  playing  in  the  sunshine  — 
and  the  hollyhocks,  and  the  dilapidated 
house  —  that    brought    to    memory  the   old 


FRIENDSHIP 


93 


story  of  Anna  which  I  here  set  down, 
not  because  it  carries  any  moral,  but  because 
it  is  a  common  little  piece  out  of  real  life 
in  which  Harriet  and  I  have  been 
interested. 


THE  DRUNKARD 


bw?;  * 


'  -'•-* 


m 


VI 


THE    DRUNKARD 

IT  IS  a  strange  thing:  Adventure.  I 
looked  for  her  high  and  I  looked  for 
her  low,  and  she  passed  my  door  in  a  tat- 
tered garment  —  unheeded.  For  I  had  neither 
the  eye  of  simplicity  nor  the  heart  of  hu- 
mility. One  day  I  looked  for  her  anew  and 
I  saw  her  beckoning  from  the  Open  Road; 
and  underneath  the  tags  and  tatters  I  caught 
the  gleam  of  her  celestial  garment;  and  I 
went  with  her  into  a  new  world. 

97 


98  ADVENTURES   IN 

I  have  had  a  singular  adventure,  in  which 
I  have  made  a  friend.  And  I  have  seen  new 
things  which  are  also  true. 

My  friend  is  a  drunkard  —  at  least  so  I 
call  him,  following  the  custom  of  the  country. 
On  his  way  from  town  he  used  often  to  come 
by  my  farm.  I  could  hear  him  singing  afar 
off.  Beginning  at  the  bridge,  where  on  still 
days  one  can  hear  the  rattle  of  a  wagon  on  the 
loose  boards,  he  sang  in  a  peculiar  clear  high 
voice.  I  make  no  further  comment  upon 
the  singing,  nor  the  cause  of  it;  but  in  the 
cool  of  the  evening  when  the  air  was  still  — ■ 
and  he  usually  came  in  the  evening  —  I 
often  heard  the  cadences  of  his  song  with 
a  thrill  of  pleasure.  Then  I  saw  him  come 
driving  by  my  farm,  sitting  on  the  spring 
seat  of  his  one-horse  wagon,  and  if  he  chanced 
to  see  me  in  my  field,  he  would  take  off  his 
hat  and  make  me  a  grandiloquent  bow,  but 
never  for  a  moment  stop  his  singing.  And 
so  he  passed  by  the  house  and  I,  with  a  smile, 
saw  him  moving  up  the  hill  in  the  north  road, 
until  finally  his  voice,  still  singing,  died 
away  in  the  distance. 

Once  I  happened  to  reach  the  house  just 
as  the  singer  was  passing,  and  Harriet  said: 


FRIENDSHIP  99 

"There  goes  that  drunkard." 

It  gave  me  an  indescribable  shock.  Of 
course  I  had  known  as  much,  and  yet  I  had 
not  directly  applied  the  term.  I  had  not 
thought  of  my  singer  as  that,  for  I  had  often 
been  conscious  in  spite  of  myself,  alone  in 
my  fields,  of  something  human  and  cheer- 
ful which   had   touched   me,   in  passing. 

After  Harriet  applied  her  name  to  my 
singer,  I  was  of  two  minds  concerning  him. 
I  struggled  with  myself:  I  tried  instinctively 
to  discipline  my  pulses  when  I  heard  the 
sound  of  his  singing.  For  was  he  not  a 
drunkard?  Lord!  how  we  get  our  moralities 
mixed  up  with  our  realities! 

And  then  one  evening  when  I  saw  him 
coming  —  I  had  been  a  long  day  alone  in 
my  fields  —  I  experienced  a  sudden  revul- 
sion of  feeling.  With  an  indescribable  joy- 
ousness  of  adventure  I  stepped  out  toward 
the  fence  and  pretended  to  be  hard  at  work. 

"After  all,"  I  said  to  myself,  "this  is  a 
large  world,  with  room  in  it  for  many  curi- 
ous people." 

I  waited  in  excitement.  When  he  came 
near  me  I  straightened  up  just  as  though 
I  had  seen  him  for  the  first  time.     When  he 


ioo  ADVENTURES  IN   FRIENDSHIP 

lifted  his  hat  to  me  I  lifted  my  hat  as  grandil* 
oquently  as  he. 

"How  are  you,  neighbour?"  I  asked. 

He  paused  for  a  single  instant  and  gave 
me  a  smile;  then  he  replaced  his  hat 
as  though  he  had  far  more  important 
business  to  attend  to,  and  went  on  up  the 
road. 

My  next  glimpse  of  him  was  a  complete 
surprise  to  me.  I  saw  him  on  the  street 
in  town.  Harriet  pointed  him  out,  else 
I  should  never  have  recognized  him:  a  quiet, 
shy,  modest  man,  as  different  as  one  could 
imagine  from  the  singer  I  had  seen  so  often 
passing  my  farm.  He  wore  neat,  worn 
clothes;  and  his  horse  stood  tied  in 
front  of  the  store.  He  had  brought  his 
honey  to  town  to  sell.  He  was  a  bee- 
man. 

I  stopped  and  asked  him  about  his  honey, 
and  whether  the  fall  flowers  had  been  plenty; 
I  ran  my  eye  over  his  horse,  and  said  that 
it  seemed  to  be  a  good  animal.  But  I  could 
get  very  little  from  him,  and  that  little  in  a 
rather  low  voice.  I  came  away  with 
my  interest  whetted  to  a  still  keener  edge. 
How    a    man    has     come    to    be    what    he 


o 

I— I 

> 

w 

W 
H 


> 

-! 
-) 


102  ADVENTURES  IN 

is  —  is  there  any  discovery  better  worth 
making? 

After  that  day  in  town  I  watched  for  the 
bee-man,  and  I  saw  him  often  on  his  way  to 
town,  silent,  somewhat  bent  forward  in  his 
seat,  driving  his  horse  with  circumspection, 
a  Dr.  Jekyll  of  propriety;  and  a  few  hours 
later  he  would  come  homeward  a  wholly 
different  person,  straight  of  back,  joyous 
of  mien,  singing  his  songs  in  his  high  clear 
voice,  a  very  Hyde  of  recklessness.  Even 
the  old  horse  seemed  changed:  he  held  his 
head  higher  and  stepped  with  a  quicker 
pace.  When  the  bee-man  went  toward  town 
he  never  paused,  nor  once  looked  around  to 
see  me  in  my  field;  but  when  he  came  back 
he  watched  for  me,  and  when  I  responded 
to  his  bow  he  would  sometimes  stop  and 
reply  to  my  greeting. 

One  day  he  came  from  town  on  foot  and 
when  he  saw  me,  even  though  I  was  some 
distance  away,  he  approached  the  fence  and 
took  off  his  hat,  and  held  out  his  hand.  I 
walked  over  toward  him.  I  saw  his  full 
face  for  the  first  time:  a  rather  handsome 
face.  The  hair  was  thin  and  curly,  the  fore- 
head    generous    and    smooth;   but    the   chin 


FRIENDSHIP  103 

was  small.     His  face  was  slightly  flushed  and 
his  eyes  —  his  eyes  burned!    I  shook  his  hand. 

"I  had  hoped,':  I  said,  "that  you  would 
stop  sometime  as  you  went  by." 

"Well,  I've  wanted  to  stop  —  but  I'm 
a  busy  man.  I  have  important  matters 
in  hand  almost  all  the  time." 

"You  usually  drive." 

"Yes,  ordinarily  I  drive.  I  do  not  use  a 
team,  but  I  have  in  view  a  fine  span  of 
roadsters.  One  of  these  days  you  will  see 
me  going  by  your  farm  in  style.  My  wife 
and  I  both  enjoy  driving." 

I  wish  I  could  here  convey  the  tone  of 
buoyancy  with  which  he  said  these  words. 
There  was  a  largeness  and  confidence  in 
them  that  carried  me  away.  He  told  me 
that  he  was  now  "working  with  the  experts' 
—  those  were  his  words  —  and  that  he  would 
soon  begin  building  a  house  that  would 
astonish  the  country.  Upon  this  he  turned 
abruptly  away,  but  came  back  and  with 
fine  courtesy  shook  my  hand. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "I  am  a  busy  man,  Mr. 
Grayson  —  and  a  happy  man." 

So  he  set  off  down  the  road,  and  as  he  passed 
my  house  he  began  singing  again  in  his  high 


104  ADVENTURES  IN 

voice.  I  walked  away  with  a  feeling  of  wonder, 
not  unmixed  with  sorrow.  It  was  a  strange 
case! 

Gradually  I  became  really  acquainted  with 
the  bee-man,  at  first  with  the  exuberant,  con- 
fident, imaginative,  home-going  bee-man;  far 
more  slowly  with  the  shy,  reserved,  town- 
wardbound  bee-man.  It  was  quite  an  ad- 
venture, my  first  talk  with  the  shy  bee-man. 
I  was  driving  home;  I  met  him  near  the 
lower  bridge.  I  cudgeled  my  brain  to  think 
of  some  way  to  get  at  him.  As  he  passed, 
I   leaned   out   and    said: 

"Friend,  will  you  do  me  a  favour?  I 
neglected  to  stop  at  the  post-office.  Would 
you  call  and  see  whether  anything  has  been  left 
for  me  in  the  box  since  the  carrier  started?' 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  glancing  up  at  me, 
but  turning  his  head  swiftly  aside  again. 

On  his  way  back  he  stopped  and  left  me 
a  paper.  He  told  me  volubly  about  the 
way  he  would  run  the  post-office  if  he  were 
"in  a  place  of  suitable  authority." 

"Great  things  are  possible,"  he  said,,  "to 
the  man  of  ideas." 

At  this  point  began  one  of  the  by-plays 
of  my  acquaintance  with  the  bee-man.     The 


FRIENDSHIP  105 

exuberant  bee-man  referred  disparagingly  to 
the  shy  bee-man. 

"I  must  have  looked  pretty  seedy  and 
stupid  this  morning  on  my  way  in.  I  was 
up  half  the  night;   but  I  feel  all  right  now." 

The  next  time  I  met  the  shy  bee-man  he 
on  his  part  apologised  for  the  exuberant 
bee-man  —  hesitatingly,  falteringly,  wind- 
ing up  with  the  words,  "I  think  you  will 
understand."  I  grasped  his  hand,  and  left 
him  with  a  wan  smile  on  his  face.  Instinc- 
tively I  came  to  treat  the  two  men  in  a  wholly 
different  manner.  With  the  one  I  was  bluster- 
ing, hail-fellow-well-met,  listening  with  eager- 
ness to  his  expansive  talk;  but  to  the  other 
I  said  little,  feeling  my  way  slowly  to  his 
friendship,  for  I  could  not  help  looking 
upon  him  as  a  pathetic  figure.  He  needed  a 
friend!  The  exuberant  bee-man  was  suf- 
ficient unto  himself,  glorious  in  his  visions, 
and  I  had  from  him  no  little  entertainment. 

I  told  Harriet  about  my  adventures:  they 
did  not  meet  with  her  approval.  She  said 
I  was  encouraging  a  vice. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "go  over  and  see  his 
wife.      I    wonder    what     she    thinks     about 


it." 


106  ADVENTURES  IN 

"Thinks!"  exclaimed  Harriet.  "What 
should  the  wife  of  a  drunkard  think?' 

But  she  went  over.  As  soon  as  she  re- 
turned I  saw  that  something  was  wrong, 
but  I  asked  no  questions.  During  supper 
she  was  extraordinarily  preoccupied,  and 
it  was  not  until  an  hour  or  more  afterward 
that  she  came  into  my  room. 

"David,"  she  said,  "I  can't  understand 
some  things." 

"Isn't  human  nature  doing  what  it  ought 
to?"  I  asked. 

But  she  was  not  to  be  joked  with. 

"David,  that  man's  wife  doesn't  seem  to 
be  sorry  because  he  comes  home  drunken 
every  week  or  two!  I  talked  with  her  about 
it  and  what  do  you  think  she  said?  She 
said  she  knew  it  was  wrong,  but  she  intimated 
that  when  he  was  in  that  state  she  loved  — 
liked  —  him  all  the  better.  Is  it  believable? 
She  said:  'Perhaps  you  won't  understand 
—  it's  wrong,  I  know,  but  when  he  comes 
home  that  way  he  seems  so  full  of  —  life. 
He  —  he  seems  to  understand  me  better 
then!'  She  was  heartbroken,  one  could  see 
that,  but  she  would  not  admit  it.  I  leave 
it  to  you,  David,  what  can  anyone  do  with 


FRIENDSHIP  107 

a  wGman  like  that?  How  is  the  man  ever 
to  overcome  his  habits?' 

It  is  a  strange  thing,  when  we  ask  ques- 
tions directly  of  life,  how  often  the  answers 
are  unexpected  and  confusing.  Our  logic 
becomes  illogical!  Our  stories  won't  turn 
out. 

She  told  much  more  about  her  interview: 
the  neat  home,  the  bees  in  the  orchard,  the 
well-kept  garden.  "When  he's  sober,'1  she 
said,  "he  seems  to  be  a  steady,  hard 
worker." 

After  that  I  desired  more  than  ever  to 
see  deep  into  the  life  of  the  strange  bee-man. 
Why  was  he  what  he  was? 

And  at  last  the  time  came,  as  things  come 
to  him  who  desires  them  faithfully  enough. 
One  afternoon  not  long  ago,  a  fine  autumn 
afternoon,  when  the  trees  were  glorious  on 
the  hills,  the  Indian  summer  sun  never  softer, 
I  was  tramping  along  a  wood  lane  far  back 
of  my  farm.  And  at  the  roadside,  near  the 
trunk  of  an  oak  tree,  sat  my  friend,  the  bee- 
man.  He  was  a  picture  of  despondency, 
one  long  hand  hanging  limp  between  his 
knees,  his  head  bowed  down.  When  he 
saw  me  he   straightened   up,   looked   at    me, 


108  ADVENTURES  IN 

and  settled  back  again.  My  heart  went 
out    to   him,    and   I  sat   down  beside   him. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  finer  afternoon?" 
I  asked. 

He  glanced  up  at  the  sky. 

"Fine?'  he  answered  vaguely,  as  if  it 
had  never  occurred  to  him. 

I  saw  instantly  what  the  matter  was; 
the  exuberant  bee-man  was  in  process  of 
transformation  into  the  shy  bee-man.  I 
don't  know  exactly  how  it  came  about, 
for  such  things  are  difficult  to  explain,  but 
I  led  him  to  talk  of  himself. 

"After  it  is  all  over,':  he  said,  "of  course 
I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  You  don't  know, 
Mr.  Grayson,  what  it  all  means.  I  am 
ashamed  of  myself  now,  and  yet  I  know  I 
shall  do  it  again." 

"No,"  I  said,"  you  will  not  do  it  again." 

"Yes,  I  shall.  Something  inside  of  me 
argues:  Why  should  you  be  sorry?  Were 
you  not  free  for  a  whole  afternoon?" 

"Free?"  I  asked. 

"Yes  —  free.  You  will  not  understand. 
But  every  day  I  work,  work,  work.  I  have 
friends,  but  somehow  I  can't  get  to  them; 
I  can't  even   get  to  my  wife.     It  seems   as 


FRIENDSHIP  109 

if  a  wall  hemmed  me  in,  as  if  I  were  bound 
to  a  rock  which  I  couldn't  get  away  from. 
I  am  also  afraid.  When  I  am  sober  I  know 
how  to  do  great  things,  but  I  can't  do  them. 
After  a  few  glasses  —  I  never  take  more  — 
I  not  only  know  I  can  do  great  things, 
but  I  feel  as  though  I  were  really  doing 
them." 

"But  you  never  do?" 

"No,  I  never  do,  but  I  feel  that  I  can. 
All  the  bonds  break  and  the  wall  falls  down 
and  I  am  free.  I  can  really  touch  people. 
I  feel  friendly  and  neighbourly." 

He  was  talking  eagerly  now,  trying  to 
explain,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  said, 
how  it  was  that  he  did  what  he  did.  He 
told  me  how  beautiful  it  made  the  world, 
where  before  it  was  miserable  and  friendless, 
how  he  thought  of  great  things  and  made 
great  plans,  how  his  home  seemed  finer  and 
better  to  him,  and  his  work  more  noble. 
The  man  had  a  real  gift  of  imagination  and 
spoke  with  an  eagerness  and  eloquence  that 
stirred  me  deeply.  I  was  almost  on  the 
point  of  asking  him  where  his  magic  liquor 
was  to  be  found!  When  he  finally  gave  me 
an  opening,  I  said: 


no  ADVENTURES  IN 

"I  think  I  understand.  Many  men  1 
know  are  in  some  respects  drunkards.  They 
all  want  some  way  to  escape  themselves  — ■ 
to  be  free  of  their  own  limitations." 

"That's  it!  That's  it!"  he  exclaimed 
eagerly. 

We  sat  for  a  time  side  by  side,  saying 
nothing.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  that 
line  of  Virgil  referring  to  quite  another  sort 
of  intoxication: 


a 


With   Voluntary    dreams    they    cheat    their   minds." 


Instead  of  that  beautiful  unity  of  thought 
and  action  which  marks  the  finest  character, 
here  was  this  poor  tragedy  of  the  divided 
life.  When  Fate  would  destroy  a  man  it 
first  separates  his  forces!  It  drives  him  to 
think  one  way  and  act  another;  it  encour- 
ages him  to  seek  through  outward  stimula- 
tion —  whether  drink,  or  riches,  or  fame 
—  a  deceptive  and  unworthy  satisfaction 
in  place  of  that  true  contentment  which 
comes  only  from  unity  within.  £Jo  man 
can  be  two  men  successfullv. 

So  we  sat  and  said  nothing.  What  indeed 
can  any  man  say  to  another  under  such  cir- 


FRIENDSHIP  in 

cumstances?     As  Bobbie  Burns  remarks  out 
of  the  depths  of  his  own  experience: 

"What's    done   we    partly    may   compute 
But  know  not  what's  resisted." 

I've  always  felt  that  the  best  thing  one  man 
can  give  another  is  the  warm  hand  of  under- 
standing. And  yet  when  I  thought  of  the 
pathetic,  shy  bee-man,  hemmed  in  by  his 
sunless  walls,  I  felt  that  I  should  also  say 
something.  Seeing  two  men  struggling  shall 
I  not  assist  the  better?  Shall  I  let  the  sober 
one  be  despoiled  by  him  who  is  riotous? 
There  are  realities,  but  there  are  also  moral- 
ities —  if  we  can  keep  them  properly 
separated. 

"Most  of  us,"  I  said  finally,  "are  in  some 
respects  drunkards.  We  don't  give  it  so 
harsh  a  name,  but  we  are  just  that.  Drunk- 
enness is  not  a  mere  matter  of  intoxicating 
liquors;  it  goes  deeper  —  far  deeper.  Drunk- 
enness is  the  failure  of  a  man  to  control  his 
thoughts." 

The  bee-man  sat  silent,  gazing  out 
before  him.  I  noted  the  blue  veins  in 
the   hand   that    lay  on    his    knee.     It  came 


ii2  ADVENTURES  IN 

over  me  with  sudden  amusement  and  1 
said: 

"I  often  get  drunk  myself." 

"You?" 

"Yes  — dreadfully  drunk." 

He  looked  at  me  and  laughed  —  for  the 
first  time!  And  I  laughed,  too.  Do  you 
know,  there's  a  lot  of  human  nature  in  people! 
And  when  you  think  you  are  deep  in  tragedy, 
behold,  humour  lurks  just  around  the  corner! 

"I  used  to  laugh  at  it  a  good  deal  more 
than  I  do  now,"  he  said.  "I've  been  through 
it  all.  Sometimes  when  I  go  to  town  I  say 
to  myself,  T  will  not  turn  at  that  corner,' 
but  when  I  come  to  the  corner,  I  do  turn. 
Then  I  say  T  will  not  go  into  that  bar,' 
but  I  do  go  in.  T  will  not  order  anything  to 
drink,'  I  say  to  myself,  and  then  I  hear  my- 
self talking  aloud  to  the  barkeeper  just  as 
though  I  were  some  other  person.  'Give 
me  a  glass  of  rye,'  I  say,  and  I  stand  off 
looking  at  myself,  very  angry  and  sorrow- 
ful. But  gradually  I  seem  to  grow  weaker 
and  weaker  —  or  rather  stronger  and  stronger 
—  for  my  brain  begins  to  become  clear,  and 
I  see  things  and  feel  things  I  never  saw  or 
felt  before,     I  want  to  sing," 


FRIENDSHIP  113 

"And  you  do  sing,"  I  said. 

"I  do,  indeed, ':  he  responded,  laughing, 
"and  it  seems  to  me  the  most  beautiful 
music  in  the  world." 

"Sometimes,'1  I  said,  "when  I'm  on  my 
kind  of  spree,  I  try  not  so  much  to  empty 
my  mind  of  the  thoughts  which  bother  me, 
but  rather  to  fill  my  mind  with  other,  stronger 
thoughts " 

Before  I  could  finish  he  had  interrupted: 

"Haven't  I  tried  that,  too?  Don't  I  think 
of  other  things?  I  think  of  bees  —  and  that 
leads  me  to  honey,  doesn't  it?  And  that 
makes  me  think  of  putting  the  honey  in  the 
wagon  and  taking  it  to  town.  Then,  of 
course,  I  think  how  it  will  sell.  Instantly, 
stronger  than  you  can  imagine,  I  see  a  dime 
in  my  hand.  Then  it  appears  on  the  wet 
bar.  I  smell  the  smell  of  the  liquor.  And 
there  you  are!" 

We  did  not  talk  much  more  that  day. 
We  got  up  and  shook  hands  and  looked  each 
other  in  the  eye.  The  bee-man  turned  away, 
but  came  back  hesitatingly„ 

"I  am  glad  of  this  talk,  Mr.  Grayson.  It 
makes  me  feel  like  taking  hold  again.  I 
have  been  in  hell  for  years  — — " 


ii4  ADVENTURES  IN 

"Of  course,"  I  said.  "  You  needed  a  friend. 
You  and  I  will  come  up  together." 

As  I  walked  toward  home  that  evening 
I  felt  a  curious  warmth  of  satisfaction  in 
my  soul  —  and  I  marvelled  at  the  many 
strange  things  that  are  to  be  found  upon 
this  miraculous  earth. 

I  suppose,  if  I  were  writing  a  story,  I 
should  stop  at  this  point;  but  I  am  dealing 
in  life.  And  life  does  not  always  respond 
to  our  impatience  with  satisfactory  moral 
conclusions.  Life  is  inconclusive:  quite 
open  at  the  end.  I  had  a  vision  of  a  new 
life  for  my  neighbour,  the  bee-man  —  and 
have  it  yet,  for  I  have  not  done  with  him 
—  but 

Last  evening,  and  that  is  why  I  have  been 
prompted  to  write  the  whole  story,  my  bee- 
man  came  again  along  the  road  by  my  farm; 
my  exuberant  bee-man.  I  heard  him  sing- 
ing afar  off. 

He  did  not  see  me  as  he  went  by,  but  as 
1  stood  looking  out  at  him,  it  came  over  me 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  largeness  and 
quietude  that  the  sun  shone  on  him  as 
genially  as  it  did  on  me,  and  that  the  leaves 


FRIENDSHIP 


US 


did  not  turn  aside  from  him,  nor  the  birds 
stop  singing  when  he  passed. 

"He  also  belongs  here,"  I  said. 

And  I  watched  him  as  he  mounted  the 
distant  hill,  until  I  could  no  longer  hear  the 
high  clear  cadences  of  his  song.  And  it- 
seemed  to  me  that  something  human,  in 
passing,  had  touched  me. 


AN  OLD  MAID 


- 1  m^-  W^-^  If  ftpfe^ 


m 


«  ^  imm  \\*&&  Y>3^  'A 


^>*« 


^SV«| 


«:fd-;, 


VII 

AN  OLD  MAID 


ONE  of  my  neighbours  whom  I  nevei 
have  chanced  to  mention  before  in 
these  writings  is  a  certain  Old  Maid.  She 
lives  about  two  miles  from  my  farm  in  a 
small  white  house  set  in  the  midst  of  a  modest, 
neat  garden  with  well-kept  apple  trees  in 
the  orchard  behind  it.  She  lives  all  alone 
save  for  a  good-humoured,  stupid  nephew 
who  does  most  of  the  work  on  the  farm  —  and 
does  it  a  little  unwillingly.  Harriet  and  I  had 
not  been  here  above  a  week  when  we  first  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Miss  Aiken,  or  rather 
she    made   our   acquaintance.     For   she   fills 

IIQ 


i2o  ADVENTURES  IN 

the  place,  most  important  in  a  country 
community,  of  a  sensitive  social  tentacle 
—  reaching  out  to  touch  with  sympathy 
the  stranger.  Harriet  was  amused  at  first 
by  what  she  considered  an  almost  unwar 
rantable  curiosity,  but  we  soon  formed  a 
genuine  liking  for  the  little  old  lady, 
and  since  then  we  have  often  seen  her 
in  her  home,  and  often  she  has  come  to 
ours. 

She  was  here  only  last  night.  I  considered 
her  as  she  sat  rocking  in  front  of  our  fire: 
a  picture  of  wholesome  comfort.  I  have 
had  much  to  say  of  contentment.  She  seems 
really  to  live  it,  although  I  have  found  that 
contentment  is  easier  to  discover  in  the  lives 
of  our  neighbours  than  in  our  own.  All 
her  life  long  she  has  lived  here  in  this  com- 
munity, a  world  of  small  things,  one  is 
tempted  to  say^  with  a  sort  of  expected  and 
predictable  life.  I  thought  last  night,  as  I 
observed  her  gently  stirring  her  rocking- 
chair,  how  her  life  must  be  made  up  of  small, 
often-repeated  events:  pancakes,  puddings, 
patchings,  who  knows  what  other  orderly, 
habitual,  minute  affairs?  Who  knows?  Who 
knows  when  he  looks  at  you  or  at  me  that 


FRIENDSHIP  121 

there  is  anything  in  us  beyond  the  humdrum- 
mery  of  this  day? 

In  front  of  her  house  are  two  long,  boarded 
beds  of  old-fashioned  flowers,  mignonette 
and  petunias  chiefly,  and  over  the  small, 
very  white  door  with  its  shiny  knob,  creeps 
a  white  clematis  vine.  Just  inside  the  hall- 
door  you  will  discover  a  bright,  clean,  oval 
rag  rug,  which  prepares  you,  as  small  things 
lead  to  greater,  for  the  larger,  brighter, 
cleaner  rug  of  the  sitting-room.  There  on 
the  centre-table  you  will  discover  "Snow 
Bound,"  by  John  Greenleaf  Whittier;  Tap- 
per's Poems;  a  large  embossed  Bible;  the 
family  plush  album;  and  a  book,  with  a 
gilt  ladder  on  the  cover  which  leads  upward 
to  gilt  stars,  called  the  "Path  of  Life."  On 
the  wall  are  two  companion  pictures  of  a 
rosy  fat  child,  in  faded  gilt  frames,  one  called 
"Wide  Awake,"  the  other  uFast  Asleep." 
Not  far  away,  in  the  corner,  on  the  top  of 
the  walnut  whatnot,  is  a  curious  vase  filled 
with  pampas  plumes;  there  are  sea-shells 
and  a  piece  of  coral  on  the  shelf  below.  And 
right  in  the  midst  of  the  room  are  three  very 
large  black  rocking-chairs  with  cushions  in 
every  conceivable  and  available  place  —  in- 


122  ADVENTURES  IN 

eluding  cushions  on  the  arms.  Two  of  them 
are  for  you  and  me,  if  we  should  come  in 
to  call;   the  other  is  for  the  cat. 

When  you  sit  down  you  can  look  out 
between  the  starchiest  of  starchy  curtains 
into  the  yard,  where  there  is  an  innumerable 
busy  flock  of  chickens.  She  keeps  chickens, 
and  all  the  important  ones  are  named.  She 
has  one  called  Martin  Luther,  another  is 
Josiah  Gilbert  Holland.  Once  she  came 
over  to  our  house  with  a  basket,  from  one 
end  of  which  were  thrust  the  sturdy  red 
legs  of  a  pullet.  She  informed  us  that 
she  had  brought  us  one  of  Evangeline's 
daughters. 

But  I  am  getting  out  of  the  house  before 
I  am  fairly  well  into  it.  The  sitting-room 
expresses  Miss  Aiken;  but  not  so  well,  some- 
how, as  the  immaculate  bedroom  beyond, 
into  which,  upon  one  occasion,  I  was  per- 
mitted to  steal  a  modest  glimpse.  It  was 
of  an  incomparable  neatness  and  order,  all 
hung  about  —  or  so  it  seemed  to  me  —  with 
white  starchy  things,  and  ornamented  with 
bright  (but  inexpensive)  nothings.  In  this 
wonderful  bedroom  there  is  a  secret  and 
sacred  drawer  into  which,  once  in  her  life, 


FRIENDSHIP  123 

Harriet  had  a  glimpse.  It  contains  the 
clothes,  all  gently  folded,  exhaling  an  odour 
of  lavender,  in  which  our  friend  will  appear 
when  she  has  closed  her  eyes  to  open  them 
no  more  upon  this  earth.  In  such  calm 
readiness  she  awaits  her  time. 

Upon  the  bureau  in  this  sacred  apartment 
stands  a  small  rosewood  box,  which  is  locked, 
into  which  no  one  in  our  neighbourhood  has 
had  so  much  as  a  single  peep.  I  should 
not  dare,  of  course,  to  speculate  upon  its 
contents;  perhaps  an  old  letter  or  two, 
"a  ring  and  a  rose,':  a  ribbon  that  is  more 
than  a  ribbon,  a  picture  that  is  more  than 
art.  Who  can  tell?  As  I  passed  that  way 
I  fancied  I  could  distinguish  a  faint,  mysteri- 
ous odour  which  I  associated  with  the  rose- 
wood box:  an  old-fashioned  odour  composed 
of  many  simples. 

On  the  stand  near  the  head  of  the  bed  and 
close  to  the  candlestick  is  a  Bible  —  a  little, 
familiar,  daily  Bible,  very  different  indeed 
from  the  portentous  and  imposing  family 
Bible  which  reposes  on  the  centre-table  in 
the  front  room,  which  is  never  opened  except 
to  record  a  death.  It  has  been  well  worn, 
this  small  nightly  Bible,  by  much  handling. 


124  ADVENTURES  IN 

Is  there  a  care  or  a  trouble  in  this  world, 
here  is  the  sure  talisman.  She  seeks  (and 
finds)  the  inspired  text.  Wherever  she  opens 
the  book  she  seizes  the  first  words  her  eyes 
fall  upon  as  a  prophetic  message  to  her. 
Then  she  goes  forth  like  some  David  with 
his  sling,  so  panoplied  with  courage  that  she 
is  daunted  by  noHGoliath  of  the  Philistines. 
Also  she  has  a  worshipfulness  of  all  ministers. 
Sometimes  when  the  Scotch  Preacher  comes 
to  tea  and  remarks  that  her  pudding 
is  good,  I  firmly  believe  that  she  inter- 
prets the  words  into  a  spiritual  message 
for  her. 

Besides  the  drawer,  the  rosewood  box, 
and  the  worn  Bible,  there  is  a  certain  Black 
Cape.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  attempt  a 
description,  but  I  can  say  with  some  assur- 
ance that  it  also  occupies  a  shrine.  It 
may  not  be  in  the  inner  sanctuary,  but  it 
certainly  occupies  a  goodly  part  of  the  outer 
porch  of  the  temple.  All  this,  of  course, 
is  figurative,  for  the  cape  hangs  just  inside 
the  closet  door  on  a  hanger,  with  a  white 
cloth  over  the  shoulders  to  keep  off  the  dust. 
For  the  vanities  of  the  world  enter  even  such 
a   sanctuary   as   this.     I   wish,    indeed^    that 


FRIENDSHIP  125 

you  could  see  Miss  Aiken  wearing  her  cape 
on  a  Sunday  in  the  late  fall  when  she  comes 
to  church,  her  sweet  old  face  shining  under 
her  black  hat,  her  old-fashioned  silk  skirt 
giving  out  an  audible,  not  unimpressive  sound 
as  she  moves  down  the  aisle.  With  what 
dignity  she  steps  into  her  pew!  With  what 
care  she  sits  down  so  that  she  may  not  crush 
the  cookies  in  her  ample  pocket;  with  what 
meek  pride  —  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
meek  pride  - —  she  looks  up  at  the  Scotch 
Preacher  as  he  stands  sturdily  in  his  pulpit 
announcing  the  first  hymn!  And  many 
an  eye  turning  that  way  to  look  turns  with 
affection. 

Several  times  Harriet  and  I  have  been 
with  her  to  tea.  Like  many  another  genius, 
she  has  no  conception  of  her  own  art  in  such 
matters  as  apple  puddings.  She  herself  pre- 
fers graham  gems,  in  which  she  believes 
there  inheres  a  certain  mysterious  efficacy. 
She  bakes  gems  on  Monday  and  has  them 
steamed  during  the  remainder  of  the  week 
—  with  tea. 

And  as  a  sort  of  dessert  she  tells  us  about 
the  Danas,  the  Aikens  and  the  Carnahans, 
who  are,   in   various   relationships,   her  pro- 


126  ADVENTURES  IN 

genitors.  We  gravitate  into  the  other  room, 
and  presently  she^ shows  us,  in  the  plush 
album,  the  portraits  of  various  cousins 
aunts  and  uncles.  And  by-and-by  Harriet 
warms  up  and  begins  to  tell  about  the  Scrib- 
ners,  the  Macintoshes,  and  the  Strayers, 
who  are  our  progenitors. 

"The  Aikens,"  says  Miss  Aiken,  "were 
always  like  that  —  downright  and  out- 
spoken. It  is  an  Aiken  trait.  No  Aiken 
could  ever  help  blurting  out  the  truth  if 
he  knew  he  were  to  die  for  it  the  next 
minute." 

"That  was  like  the  Macintoshes,"  Harriet 
puts  in.     "Old  Grandfather  Macintosh " 

By  this  time  I  am  settled  comfortably  in 
the  cushioned  rocking-chair  to  watch  the 
fray.  Miss  Aiken  advances  a  Dana,  Harriet 
counters  with  a  Strayer.  Miss  Aiken  de- 
ploys the  Carnahans  in  open  order,  upon 
which  Harriet  entrenches  herself  with  the 
heroic  Scribners  and  lets  fly  a  Macintosh 
who  was  a  general  in  the  colonial  army. 
Surprised,  but  not  defeated,  Miss  Aiken 
withdraws  in  good  order,  covering  her  re- 
treat with  two  Mayflower  ancestors,  the 
existence    of    whom    she    establishes     with 


FRIENDSHIP  127 

a  blue  cup  and  an  ancient  silver  spoon. 
No  one  knows  the  joy  of  fighting  relatives 
until  he  has  watched  such  a  battle,  follow- 
ing the  complete  comfort  of  a  good 
supper. 

If  any  one  is  sick  in  the  community  Miss 
Aiken  hears  instantly  of  it  by  a  sort  of  wire- 
less telegraphy,  or  telepathy  which  would 
astonish  a  mystery-loving  East  Indian.  She 
appears  with  her  little  basket,  which  has  two 
brown  flaps  for  covers  opening  from  the  mid- 
dle and  with  a  spring  in  them  somewhere 
so  that  they  fly  shut  with  a  snap.  Out  of 
this  she  takes  a  bowl  of  chicken  broth,  a 
jar  of  ambrosial  jelly,  a  cake  of  delectable 
honey  and  a  bottle  of  celestial  raspberry 
shrub.  If  the  patient  will  only  eat,  he  will 
immediately  rise  up  and  walk.  Or  if  he 
dies,  it  is  a  pleasant  sort  of  death.  I  have 
myself  thought  on  several  occasions  of  being 
taken  with  a  brief  fit  of  sickness. 

In  telling  all  these  things  about  Miss 
Aiken,  which  seem  to  describe  her,  I  have 
told  only  the  commonplace,  the  expected 
or  predictable  details.  Often  and  often  I 
pause  when  I  see  an  interesting  man  or  woman 
and  ask  myself:     "How,  after  all,  does  this 


128  ADVENTURES  IN 

person  live?'  For  we  all  know  it  is  not 
chiefly  by  the  clothes  we  wear  or  the  house 
we  occupy  or  the  friends  we  touch.  There 
is  something  deeper,  more  secret,  which 
furnishes  the  real  motive  and  character  of 
our  lives.  What  a  triumph,  then,  is  every 
fine  old  man!  To  have  come  out  of  a  long 
life  with  a  spirit  still  sunny,  is  not  that  an 
heroic  accomplishment? 

Of  the  real  life  of  our  friend  I  know  only 
one  thing;  but  that  thing  is  precious  to  me, 
for  it  gives  me  a  glimpse  of  the  far  dim  Alps 
that  rise  out  of  the  Plains  of  Contentment. 
It  is  nothing  very  definite  —  such  things 
never  are;  and  yet  I  like  to  think  of  it  when 
I  see  her  treading  the  useful  round  of  her 
simple  life.  As  I  said,  she  has  lived  here 
in  this  neighbourhood  —  oh,  sixty  years.  The 
country  knew  her  father  before  her.  Out 
of  that  past,  through  the  dimming  eyes  of 
some  of  the  old  inhabitants,  I  have  had 
glimpses  of  the  sprightly  girlhood  which  our 
friend  must  have  enjoyed.  There  is  even 
a  confused  story  of  a  wooer  (how  people 
try  to  account  for  every  old  maid!)  —  a  long 
time  ago  —  who  came  and  went  away  again. 
No  one  remembers  much  about  him  —  such 


FRIENDSHIP  129 

things    are    not    important,    of   course,    after 


so  many  years 

But  I  must  get  to  the  thing  I  treasure. 
One  day  Harriet  called  at  the  little  house. 
It  was  in  summer  and  the  door  stood  open; 
she  presumed  on  the  privilege  of  friendship 
and  walked  straight  in.  There  she  saw, 
sitting  at  the  table,  her  head  on  her  arm  in 
a  curious  girlish  abandon  unlike  the  prim 
Miss  Aiken  we  knew  so  well,  our  Old  Maid. 
When  she  heard  Harriet's  step  she  started 
up  with  breath  quickly  indrawn.  There 
were  tears  in  her  eyes.  Something  in 
her  hand  she  concealed  in  the  folds  of 
her  skirt  then  impulsively  —  unlike  her, 
too  —  she  threw  an  arm  around  Harriet 
and  buried  her  face  on  Harriet's  shoulder. 
In  response  to  Harriet's  question  she 
said: 

"Oh,  an  old,  old  trouble.  No  new  trouble.'7 
That  was  all  there  was  to  it.  All  the  new 
troubles  were  the  troubles  of  other  people. 
You  may  say  this  isn't  much  of  a  clue;  well 
it  isn't,  and  yet  I  like  to  have  it  in  mind.  It 
gives  me  somehow  the  other  woman  who  is 
not  expected  or  predictable  or  commonplace. 
I    seem    to    understand    our   Old    Maid    the 


i3o  ADVENTURES  IN   FRIENDSHIP 

better;  and  when  I  think  of  her  bustling, 
inquisitive,  helpful,  gentle  ways  and  the 
shine  of  her  white  soul,  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  what  we  should  do  without  her  in  this 
community. 


A   ROADSIDE   PROPHET 


&■'-■■■ 


*V"A* 


^JftiiJ, 


1^^##^:<^ 


VIII 


A  ROADSIDE  PROPHET 


FROM  my  upper  field,  when  I  look  across 
the  countryside,  I  can  see  in  the  dis- 
tance a  short  stretch  of  the  gray  town  road. 
It  winds  out  of  a  little  wood,  crosses  a  knoll, 
and  loses  itself  again  beyond  the  trees  of  an 
old  orchard.  I  love  that  spot  in  my  upper 
field,  and  the  view  of  the  road  beyond.  When 
I  am  at  work  there  I  have  only  to  look  up 
to  see  the  world  go  by  —  part  of  it  going 
down  to  the  town,  and  part  of  it  coming  up 
again.     And  I  never  see  a  traveler   on    the 


133 


134  ADVENTURES  IN 

hill,  especially  if  he  be  afoot,  without  feeling 
that  if  I  met  him  I  should  like  him,  and 
that  whatever  he  had  to  say  I  should  like 
to  hear. 

At  first  I  could  not  make  out  what  the 
man  was  doing.  Most  of  the  travellers  I 
see  from  my  field  are  like  the  people  I  com- 
monly meet  —  so  intent  upon  their  desti- 
nation that  they  take  no  joy  of  the  road  they 
travel.  They  do  not  even  see  me  here  in  the 
fields;  and  if  they  did,  they  would  probably 
think  me  a  slow  and  unprofitable  person.  I 
have  nothing  that  they  can  carry  away  and 
store  up  in  barns,  or  reduce  to  percentages,  or 
calculate  as  profit  and  loss;  they  do  not  per- 
ceive what  a  wonderful  place  this  is;  they 
do  not  know  that  here,  too,  we  gather  a 
crop  of  contentment. 

But  apparently  this  man  was  the  pattern 
of  a  loiterer.  I  saw  him  stop  on  the  knoll 
and  look  widely  about  him.  Then  he  stooped 
down  as  though  searching  for  something, 
then  moved  slowly  forward  for  a  few  steps. 
Just  at  that  point  in  the  road  lies  a  great 
smooth  boulder  which  road-makers  long  since 
dead  had  rolled  out  upon  the  wayside.     Here 


FRIENDSHIP  135 

to  my  astonishment  I  saw  him  kneel  upon  the 
ground.  He  had  something  in  one  hand  with 
which  he  seemed  intently  occupied.  After  a 
time  he  stood  up,  and  retreating  a  few  steps 
down  the  road,  he  scanned  the  boulder  nar- 
rowly. 

"This,"  I  said  to  myself,  "may  be  some- 
thing for  me." 

So  I  crossed  the  fence  and  walked  down 
the  neighbouring  field.  It  was  an  Indian 
summer  day  with  hazy  hillsides,  and  still  sun- 
shine, and  slumbering  brown  fields  —  the 
sort  of  a  day  I  love.  I  leaped  the  little  brook 
in  the  valley  and  strode  hastily  up  the  op- 
posite slope.  I  cannot  describe  what  a  sense 
I  had  of  new  worlds  to  be  found  here  in  old 
fields.  So  I  came  to  the  fence  on  the  other 
side  and  looked  over.  My  man  was  kneeling 
again  at  the  rock.  I  was  scarcely  twenty  paces 
from  him,  but  so  earnestly  was  he  engaged 
that  he  never  once  saw  me.  I  had  a  good 
look  at  him.  He  was  a  small,  thin  man  with 
straight .  gray  hair;  above  his  collar  I  could 
see  the  weather-brown  wrinkles  of  his  neck. 
His  coat  was  of  black,  of  a  noticeably  neat 
appearance,  and  I  observed,  as  a  further 
evidence  of  fastidiousness  rare  upon  the  Road, 


136  ADVENTURES  IN 

that  he  was  saving  his  trousers  by  kneeling 
on  a  bit  of  carpet.  What  he  could  be  doing 
there  so  intently  by  the  roadside  I  could  not 
imagine.  So  I  climbed  the  fence,  making 
some  little  intentional  noise  as  I  did  so.  He 
arose  immediately.     Then  I  saw  at  his  side 

w 

on  the  ground  two  small  tin  cans,  and  in 
his  hands  a  pair  of  paint  brushes.  As  he 
stepped  aside  I  saw  the  words  he  had  been 
painting  on  the  boulder: 

GOD  IS  LOVE 

A  meek  figure,  indeed,  he  looked,  and  when 
he  saw  me  advancing  he  said,  with  a  deference 
that  was  almost  timidity: 

"Good  morning,  sir." 

"Good     morning,     brother,"     I     returned 

heartily. 

His  face  brightened  perceptibly. 

"Don't  stop  on  my  account,"  I  said; 
"finish  off  your  work.': 

He  knelt  again  on  his  bit  of  carpet  and  pro- 
ceeded busily  with  his  brushes.  I  stood  and 
watched  him.  The  lettering  was  somewhat 
crude,  but  he  had  the  swift  deftness  of  long 
practice. 


FRIENDSHIP  137 

"How  long/'  I  inquired,  "have  you  been  at 
this  sort  of  work  ? " 

"Ten  years, ,:  he  replied,  looking  up  at  me 
with  a  pale  smile.  "Off  and  on  for  ten 
years.  Winters  I  work  at  my  trade  —  I  am 
a  journeyman  painter  —  but  when  spring 
comes,  and  again  in  the  fall,  I  follow  the 
road." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  said,  drop- 
ping his  voice,  in  words  of  the  utmost  se- 
riousness: 

"I  live  by  the  Word." 

"By  the  Word?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  by  the  Word,"  and  putting  down  his 
brushes  he  took  from  an  inner  pocket  a  small 
package  of  papers,  one  of  which  he  handed 
to  me.  It  bore  at  the  top  this  sentence  in 
large  type: 

"Is  not  my  word  like  fire,  saith  the  Lord: 
and  like  a  hammer  that  breaketh  the  rock  in 
pieces  r 

I  stood  and  looked  at  him  a  moment.  I 
suppose  no  one  man  is  stranger  than  any 
other,  but  at  that  moment  it  seemed  to  me 
I  had  never  met  a  more  curious  person.  And 
I  was  consumed  with  a  desire  to  know  why 
he  was  what  he  was. 


138  ADVENTURES  IN 

"Do  you  always  paint  the  same  sign?55 
I  asked. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  answered.  "I  have  a  feel- 
ing about  what  I  should  paint.  When  ] 
came  up  the  road  here  this  morning  I  stopped 
a  minute,  and  it  all  seemed  so  calm  and 
nice"  —  he  swept  his  arm  in  the  direction 
of  the  fields  —  "that  I  says  to  myself,  'I 
will  paint  "God  is  Love."'" 

"An    appropriate    text,"    I    said,    "for   this 
very  spot." 

He  seemed  much  eratified. 

"Oh,  you  can  follow  your  feelings!5  he 
exclaimed.  "Sometimes  near  towns  I  can't 
paint  anything  but  'Hell  yawns/  and  ' Pre- 
pare to  meet  thy  God.'  I  don't  like  'em 
as  well  as  'God  is  Love,9  but  it  seems  like 
I  had  to  paint  'em.  Now,  when  I  was  in 
Arizona " 

He  paused  a  moment,  wiping  his  brushes. 

"When  I  was  in  Arizona,"  he  was  saying, 
"mostly  I  painted  'Repent  ye.?  It  seemed 
like  I  couldn't  paint  anything  else,  and  in 
some  places  I  felt  moved  to  put  'Repent  ye' 
twice  on  the  same  rock.': 

I  began  to  ask  him  questions  about  Ari- 
zona, but  I  soon  found  how  little  he,  too, 


FRIENDSHIP  139 

had  taken  toll  of  the  road  he  travelled:  foi 
he  seemed  to  have  brought  back  memories 
only  of  the  texts  he  painted  and  the  fact  that 
in  some  places  good  stones  were  scarce, 
and  that  he  had  to  carry  extra  turpentine 
to  thin  his  paint,  the  weather  being  dry.  I 
don't  know  that  he  is  a  lone  representative 
of  this  trait.  I  have  known  farmers  who,  in 
travelling,  saw  only  plows  and  butter-tubs 
and  corn-cribs,  and  preachers  who,  looking 
across  such  autumn  fields  as  these  would 
carry  away  only  a  musty  text  or  two.  I  pity 
some  of  those  who  expect  to  go  to  heaven: 
they  will  find  so  little  to  surprise  them  in 
the  golden  streets. 

But  I  persevered  with  my  painter,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  we  were  talking  with  the 
greatest  friendliness.  Having  now  finished 
his  work,  he  shook  out  his  bit  of  carpet, 
screwed  the  tops  on  his  paint  cans,  wrapped 
up  his  brushes,  and  disposed  of  them  all  with 
the  deftness  of  long  experience  in  his  small 
black  bag.  Then  he  stood  up  and  looked 
critically  at  his  work. 

"It's  all  right,':  I  said;  "a  great  many 
people  coming  this  way  in  the  next  hundred 
vears  will  see  it." 


i4o  ADVENTURES  IN 

"That's  what  I  want/5  he  said  eagerly; 
"that's  what  I  want.  Most  people  never 
hear  the  'Word  at  all." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  continued: 

"It's  a  curious  thing,  Mister  —  perhaps 
you've  noticed  it  yourself  —  that  the  best 
things  of  all  in  the  world  people  won't  have 
as  a  gift." 

"I've  noticed  it,"  I  said. 

"It's  strange,  isn't  it?"  he  again  remarked. 

"Very  strange,"  I  said. 

"I  dont  know's  I  can  blame  them,"  he 
continued.  "I  was  that  way  myself  for  a 
good  many  years:  all  around  me  gold  and 
diamonds  and  precious  jewels,  and  me 
never  once  seeing  them.  All  I  had  to  do 
was  to  stoop  and  take  them  —  but  I  didn't 
do    it." 

I  saw  that  I  had  met  a  philosopher,  and  I 
decided  that  I  would  stop  and  wrestle  with 
him  and  not  let  him  go  without  his  story  — 
something  like  Jacob,  wasn't  it,  with  the 
angel  ? 

"Do  you  do  all  this  without  payment?' 

He  looked  at  me  in  an  injured  way. 

"Who'd  pay  me?"  he  asked.  "Mostly 
people  think  me  a  sort  of  fool.     Oh,  I  know, 


FRIENDSHIP  141 

but  I  don't  mind.  I  live  by  the  Word.  No, 
nobody  pays  me:  I  am  paying  myself.'1 

By  this  time  he  was  ready  to  start.  So  I 
said,  "Friend,  I'm  going  your  way,  and  I'll 
walk  with  you." 

So  we  set  off  together  down  the  hill. 

"You  see,  sir,"  he  said,  "when  a  man  has 
got  the  best  thing  in  the  world,  and  finds  it's 
free,  he  naturally  wants  to  let  other  people 
know  about  it." 

He  walked  with  the  unmistakable  step  of 
those  who  knew  the  long  road  —  an  easy, 
swinging,  steady  step  —  carrying  his  small 
black  bag.  So  I  gradually  drew  him 
out,  and  when  I  had  his  whole  story  it 
was  as  simple  and  common,  but  as  wonder- 
ful, as  daylight:  as  fundamental  as  a  tree  or 
a  rock. 

"You  see,  Mister,"  he  said,  "I  was  a  wild 
sort  when  I  was  young.  The  drink,  and 
worse.  I  hear  folks  say  sometimes  that  if 
they'd  known  what  was  right  they'd  have 
done  it.  But  I  think  that  conscience  never 
stops  ringing  little  bells  in  the  back  of  a  man's 
head;  and  that  if  he  doesn't  do  what  is  right, 
it's  because  he  wants  to  do  what  is  wrong. 
He  thinks  it's  more  amusing  and  interesting. 


i42  ADVENTURES  IN 

I  went  through  all  that,  Mister,  and  plenty 
more  besides.  I  got  pretty  nearly  as  low  as  a 
man  ever  gets.  Oh,  I  was  down  and  out: 
no  home,  no  family,  not  a  friend  that  wanted 
to  see  me.  If  you  never  got  down  that  low, 
Mister,  you  don't  know  what  it  is.  You  are 
just  as  much  dead  as  if  you  were  in  your 
grave.     I'm  telling  you. 

"I  thought  there  was  no  help  for  me,  and  I 
don't  know's  I  wanted  to  be  helped.  I  said 
to  myself,  'You're  just  naturally  born  weak 
and  it  isn't  your  fault.'  It  makes  a  lot  of 
men  easier  in  their  minds  to  lay  up  their 
troubles  to  the  way  they  are  born.  I  made 
all  sorts  of  excuses  for  myself,  but  all  the  time 
I  knew  I  was  wrong;  a  man  can't  fool  him- 
self. 

"So  it  went  along  for  years.  I  got  married 
and  we  had  a  little  girl." 

He  paused  for  a  long  moment. 

"I  thought  that  was  going  to  help  me.  I 
thought  the  world  and  all  of  that  little  girl 
"   He  paused  again. 

"Well,  she  died.  Then  I  broke  my  wife's 
heart  and  went  on  down  to  hell.  When  a 
man  lets  go  that  way  he  kills  everything 
he    loves    and    everything    that    loves    him. 


FRIENDSHIP  143 

He's  on  the  road  to  loneliness  and  despair, 
that  man.     I'm  telling  you. 

"One  day,  ten  years  ago  this  fall,  I  was 
going  along  the  main  street  in  Quinceyville. 
I  was  near  the  end  of  my  rope.  Not  even 
money  enough  to  buy  drink  with,  and  yet  I 
was  then  more'n  half  drunk.  I  happened 
to  look  up  on  the  end  of  that  stone  wall 
near  the  bridge  —  were  you  ever  there, 
Mister?  —  and  I  saw  the  words  'God  is 
Love'  painted  there.  It  somehow  hit  me 
hard.  I  couldn't  anyways  get  it  out  of  my 
mind.  'God  is  Love.'  Well,  says  I  to  myself 
if  God  is  Love,  he's  the  only  one  that  is  Love 
for  a  chap  like  me.  And  there's  no  one 
else  big  enough  to  save  me  —  I  says.  So  I 
stopped  right  there  in  the  street,  and  you  may 
believe  it  or  explain  it  anyhow  you  like, 
Mister,  but  it  seemed  to  me  a  kind  of  light 
came  all  around  me,  and  I  said,  solemn-like, 
« 1  will  try  God.'" 

He  stopped  a  moment.  We  were  walking 
down  the  hill:  all  about  us  on  either  side 
spread  the  quiet  fields.  In  the  high  air 
above  a  few  lacy  clouds  were  drifting  eastward. 
Upon  this  story  of  tragic  human  life  crept 
in  pleasantly  the  calm  of  the  countryside. 


i44  ADVENTURES  IN 

"And  I  did  try  Him,"  my  companion  was 
saying,  "and  I  found  that  the  words  on  the 
wall  were  true.  They  were  true  back  there 
and  they've  been  true  ever  since.  When  I 
began  to  be  decent  again  and  got  back  my 
health  and  my  job,  I  figured  that  I  owed  a 
lot  to  God.  I  wa'n't  no  orator,  and  no 
writer  and  I  had  no  money  to  give,  'but, * 
says  I  to  myself,  'I'm  a  painter.  I'll  help 
God  with  paint.'  So  here  I  am  a-traveling 
up  and  down  the  roads  and  mostly  painting 
'God  is  Love,'  but  sometimes  'Repent  ye' 
and  'Hell  yawns.'  I  don't  know  much  about 
religion  —  but  I  do  know  that  His  Word  is 
like  a  fire,  and  that  a  man  can  live  by  it,  and 
if  once  a  man  has  it  he  has  everything  else 
he  wants." 

He  paused:  I  looked  around  at  him  again. 
His  face  was  set  steadily  ahead  —  a  plain 
face  showing  the  marks  of  his  hard  earlier 
life,  and  yet  marked  with  a  sort  of  high 
beauty. 

"The  trouble  with  people  who  are  un- 
happy, Mister,"  he  said,  "is  that  they  won't 
try  God." 

I  could  not  answer  my  companion.  There 
seemed,  Indeed,   nothing    more    to    be    said. 


FRIENDSHIP  145 

All  my  own  speculative  incomings  and  out- 
goings —  how  futile  they  seemed  compared 
with  this! 

Near  the  foot  of  the  hill  there  is  a  little 
bridge.  It  is  a  pleasant,  quiet  spot.  My 
companion  stopped  and  put  down  his  bag. 

"What  do  you  think,"  said  he,  "I  should 
paint  here?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "you  know  better  than  I 
do.     What  would  you  paint?" 

He  looked  around  at  me  and  then  smiled 
as  though  he  had  a  quiet  little  joke  with  him- 
self. 

"When  in  doubt,"  he  said,  "I  always 
paint  'God  is  Love.'  I'm  sure  of  that. 
Of  course  'Hell  yawns'  and  'Repent  ye'  have 
to  be  painted  —  near  towns  —  but  I  much 
rather  paint  'God  is  Love.'" 

I  left  him  kneeling  there  on  the  bridge,  the 
bit  of  carpet  under  his  knees,  his  two  little 
cans  at  his  side.  Half  way  up  the  hill  I 
turned  to  look  back.  He  lifted  his  hand  with 
the  paint  brush  in  it,  and  I  waved  mine 
in  return.  I  have  never  seen  him  since, 
though  it  will  be  a  long,  long  time  before 
the  sign  of  him  disappears  from  our  roadsides. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill,   near  the  painted 


146  ADVENTURES  IN   FRIENDSHIP 

boulder,  I  climbed  the  fence,  pausing  a  mo 
ment  on  the  top  rail  to  look  off  across  the 
hazy  countryside,  warm  with  the  still  sweet- 
ness of  autumn.  In  the  distance,  above  the 
crown  of  a  little  hill,  I  could  see  the  roof  of 
my  own  home  —  and  the  barn  near  it  —  and 
the  cows  feeding  quietly  in  the  pastures. 


THE   GUNSMITH 


IX 
THE   GUNSMITH 


HARRIET  and  I  had  the  first  intimation 
of  what  we  have  since  called  the 
"gunsmith  problem"  about  ten  days  ago. 
It  came  to  us,  as  was  to  be  expected,  from 
that  accomplished  spreader  of  burdens,  the 
Scotch  Preacher.  When  he  came  in  to  call 
on  us  that  evening  after  supper  I  could  see 
that  he  had  something  important  on  his  mind; 
but  I  let  him  get  to  it  in  his  own  way. 

" David,"  he  said  finally,   "Carlstrom,  the 
gunsmith,  is  going  home  to  Sweden.'3 


149 


igo  ADVENTURES  IN 

"At  last!"  I  exclaimed. 

Dr.  McAlway  paused  a  moment  and  then 
said   hesitatingly: 

"He  says   he   is   going." 

Harriet  laughed.  "Then  it's  all  decided," 
she  said;  "he  isn't  going." 

"No,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher,  "it's  not 
decided  —  yet." 

"Dr.  McAlway  hasn't  made  up  his  mind,': 
I  said,  "whether  Carlstrom  is  to  go  or  not." 

But  the  Scotch  Preacher  was  in  no  mood 
for  joking. 

"David,':  he  said,  "did  you  ever  know 
anything  about  the  homesickness  of  the 
foreigner?" 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  continued, 
nodding  his  great  shaggy  head: 

"Man,  man,  how  my  old  mither  greeted 
for  Scotland!  I  mind  how  a  sprig  of  heather 
would  bring  the  tears  to  her  eyes;  and  for 
twenty  years  I  dared  not  whistle  "Bonnie 
Doon"  or  "Charlie  Is  My  Darling"  lest  it 
break  her  heart.  'Tis  a  pain  you've  not 
had,  I'm  thinking,  Davy." 

"We  all  know  the  longing  for  old  places 
and  old  times,"  I  said. 

No,  no,  David,  it's  more  than  that.     It's 


a 


FRIENDSHIP  151 

the  wanting  and  the  longing  to  see  the  hills 
of  your  own  land,  and  the  town  where  you 
were  born,  and  the  street  where  you  played, 
and  the  house 

He  paused,  "Ah,  well,  it's  hard  for  those 
who  have  it." 

"But  I  haven't  heard  Carlstrom  refer  to 
Sweden  for  years,"  I  said.  "Is  it  homesick- 
ness, or  just  old  age?" 

"There  ye  have  it,  Davy;  the  nail  right  on 
the  head ! "  exclaimed  the  Scotch  Preacher.  "  Is 
it  homesickness,  or  is  he  just  old  and  tired?' 

With  that  we  fell  to  talking  about  Carl- 
strom, the  gunsmith.  I  have  known  him 
pretty  nearly  ever  since  I  came  here,  now  more 
than  ten  years  ago  —  and  liked  him  well, 
too  —  but  it  seemed,  as  Dr.  McAlway  talked 
that  evening,  as  though  we  were  making  the 
acquaintance  of  quite  a  new  and  wonderful 
person.  How  dull  we  all  are!  How  we 
need  such  an  artist  as  the  Scotch  Preacher 
to  mould  heroes  out  of  the  common  human 
clay  around  us!  It  takes  a  sort  of  greatness 
to  recognize  greatness. 

In  an  hour's  time  the  Scotch  Preacher  had 
both  Harriet  and  me  much  excited,  and 
the  upshot  of  the  whole  matter  was  that  I 


152  ADVENTURES  IN 

promised  to  call  on  Carlstrom  the  next  day 
when  I  went  to  town. 

I  scarcely  needed  the  prompting  of  the 
Scotch  Preacher,  for  Carlstrom's  gunshop 
has  for  years  been  one  of  the  most  interesting 
places  in  town  for  me.  I  went  to  it  now 
with  a  new  understanding. 

Afar  off  I  began  to  listen  for  Carlstrom's 
hammer,  and  presently  I  heard  the  familiar 
sounds.  There  were  two  or  three  mellow 
strokes,  and  I  knew  that  Carlstrom  was  mak- 
ing the  sparks  fly  from  the  red  iron.  Then 
the  hammer  rang,  and  I  knew  he  was  striking 
down  on  the  cold  steel  of  the  anvil.  It  is  a 
pleasant  sound  to  hear. 

Carlstrom's  shop  is  just  around  the  corner 
from  the  main  street.  You  may  know  it  by  a 
great  weather-beaten  wooden  gun  fastened 
over  the  doorway,  pointing  in  the  daytime 
at  the  sky,  and  in  the  night  at  the  stars. 
A  stranger  passing  that  way  might  wonder  at 
the  great   gun    and  possibly  say  to  himself: 

"A  gunshop !  How  can  a  man  make  a  living 
mending  guns  in  such  a  peaceful  community! " 

Such  a  remark  merely  shows  that  he  doesn't 
know  Carlstrom,   nor  the   shop,   nor  us. 

I  tied  mv  horse  at  the  corner  and  went  down 


FRIENDSHIP  153 

to  the  shop  with  a  peculiar  new  interest.  I 
saw  as  if  for  the  first  time  the  old  wheels 
which  have  stood  weathering  so  long  at  one 
end  of  the  building.  I  saw  under  the  shed 
at  the  other  end  the  wonderful  assortment 
of  old  iron  pipes,  kettles,  tires,  a  pump  or 
two,  many  parts  of  farm  machinery,  a  broken 
water  wheel,  and  I  don't  know  what  other 
flotsam  of  thirty  years  of  diligent  mending 
of  the  iron  works  of  an  entire  community. 
All  this,  you  may  say  —  the  disorder  of  old 
iron,  the  cinders  which  cover  part  of  the  yard 
but  do  not  keep  out t  the  tangle  of  goldenrod 
and  catnip  and  boneset  which  at  this  time 
of  the  year  grows  thick  along  the  neighbour 
ing  fences  —  all  this,  you  say,  makes  nc 
inviting  picture.  You  are  wrong.  Where 
honest  work  is,  there  is  always  that  which 
invites  the  eye. 

I  know  of  few  things  more  inviting  than  tc 
step  up  to  the  wide-open  doors  and  look  into 
the  shop.  The  floor,  half  of  hard  worn  boards 
half  of  cinders,  the  smoky  rafters  of  the  roof, 
the  confusion  of  implements  on  the  benches, 
the  guns  in  the  corners  —  how  all  of  these 
things  form  the  subdued  background  for  the 
flaming  forge  and  the  square  chimney  above  it 


154  ADVENTURES  IN 

At  one  side  of  the  forge  you  will  see  the 
great  dusty  bellows  and  you  will  hear  its 
stertorous  breathing.  In  front  stands  the 
old  brown  anvil  set  upon  a  gnarly  maple 
block.  A  long  sweep  made  of  peeled  hickory 
wood  controls  the  bellows,  and  as  you  look  in 
upon  this  lively  and  pleasant  scene  you  will 
see  that  the  grimy  hand  of  Carlstrom  himself 
is  upon  the  hickory  sweep.  As  he  draws  it 
down  and  lets  it  up  again  with  the  peculiar 
rhythmic  swing  of  long  experience  —  heaping 
up  his  fire  with  a  little  iron  paddle  held  in 
the  other  hand  —  he  hums  to  himself  in  a 
high  curious  old  voice,  no  words  at  all,  just  a 
tune  of  contented  employment  in  consonance 
with  the  breathing  of  the  bellows  and  the 
mounting  flames  of  the  forge. 

As  I  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway  the 
other  day  before  Carlstrom  saw  me,  I  wished 
I  could  picture  my  friend  as  the  typical 
blacksmith  with  the  brawny  arms,  the  big 
chest,  the  deep  voice  and  all  that.  But  as 
I  looked  at  him  newly,  the  Scotch  Preacher's 
words  still  in  my  ears,  he  seemed,  with  his 
stooping  shoulders,  his  gray  beard  not  very 
well  kept,  and  his  thin  gray  hair,  more  than 
ordinarily  small  and  old. 


FRIENDSHIP  155 

I  remember  as  distinctly  as  though  it 
were  yesterday  the  first  time  Carlstrom 
really  impressed  himself  upon  me.  It  was 
in  my  early  blind  days  at  the  farm.  I 
had  gone  to  him  with  a  part  of  a  horse- 
rake  which  I  had  broken  on  one  of  my 
stony  hills. 

"Can  you  mend  it?"  I  asked. 

If  I  had  known  him  better  I  should  never 
have  asked  such  a  question.  I  saw,  indeed,  at 
the  time  that  I  had  not  said  the  right  thing; 
but  how  could  I  know  then  that  Carlstrom 
never  let  any  broken  thing  escape  him?  A 
watch,  or  a  gun,  or  a  locomotive  —  they  are 
all  alike  to  him,  if  they  are  broken.  I  be- 
lieve he  would  agree  to  patch  the  wrecked 
chariot  of  Phaethon! 

A  week  later  I  came  back  to  the  shop. 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  he  said  when  he  saw 
me. 

He  turned  from  his  forge,  set  his  hands  on 
his  hips  and  looked  at  me  a  moment  with 
feigned  seriousness. 

"So!"  he  said.  "You  have  come  for  your 
job?" 

He  softened  the  "j'  in  job;  his  whole 
speech,   indeed,   had  the  engaging  inflection 


156  ADVENTURES  IN 

of   the    Scandinavian   tongue   overlaid   upon 
the  English  words, 

"So,"  he  said,  and  went  to  his  bench  with 
a  quick  st^p  and  an  air  of  almost  childish 
eagerness.  He  handed  me  the  parts  of  my 
hay-rake  without  a  word.  I  looked  them 
over  carefully. 

"I  can't  see  where  you  mended  them,"  I 
^aid. 

You  should  have  seen  his  face  brighten 
with  pleasure!  He  allowed  me  to  admire 
the  work  in  silence  for  a  moment  and  then 
he  had  it  out  of  my  hand,  as  if  I  couldn't 
be  trusted  with  anything  so  important,  and 
he  explained  how  he  had  done  it.  A  special 
tool  for  his  lathe  had  been  found  necessary 
in  order  to  do  my  work  properly.  This  he 
had  made  at  his  forge,  and  I  suppose  it  had 
taken  him  twice  as  long  to  make  the  special 
tool  as  it  had  to  mend  the  parts  of  my  rake; 
but  when  I  would  have  paid  him  for  it  he 
would  take  nothing  save  for  the  mending 
itself.  Nor  was  this  a  mere  rebuke  to  a 
doubter.  It  had  delighted  him  to  do  a 
difficult  thing,  to  show  the  really  great  skill 
he  had.  Indeed,  I  think  our  friendship 
began  right  there  and  was  based  upon  the 


FRIENDSHIP  157 

favour  I  did  in  bringing  him  a  job  that  I 
thought  he  couldn't  do! 

When  he  saw  me  the  other  day  in  the  door 
of  his  shop  he  seemed  greatly  pleased. 

"Come    in,    come    in,':    he    said. 

"What  is  this  I  hear,"  I  said,  "about  your 
going  back  to  Sweden?" 

"For  forty  years, ':  he  said,  "I've  been 
homesick  for  Sweden.  Now  I'm  an  old 
man  and  I'm  going  home." 

"But,  Carlstrom,':  I  said,  "we  can't  get 
along  without  you.  Who's  going  to  keep  us 
mended  up?" 

"You  have  Charles  Baxter,'1  he  said, 
smiling. 

For  years  there  had  been  a  quiet  sort  of 
rivalry  between  Carlstrom  and  Baxter, 
though  Baxter  is  in  the  country  and  works 
chiefly  in  wood. 

"But  Baxter  can't  mend  a  gun  or  a  hay- 
rake,  or  a  pump,  to  save  his  life,"  I  said. 
"You  know  that." 

The  old  man  seemed  greatly  pleased:  he 
had  the  simple  vanity  which  is  the  right  of 
the  true  workman.  But  for  answer  he  merely 
shook  his  head. 

tfJ  have  been  here  forty  years, ':   he  said, 


158  ADVENTURES  IN 

"and  all  the  time  I  have  been  homesick  for 
Sweden." 

I  found  that  several  men  of  the  town  had 
been  in  to  see  Carlstrom  and  talked  with 
him  of  his  plans,  and  even  while  I  was  there 
two  other  friends  came  in.  The  old  man  was 
delighted  with  the  interest  shown.  After  I 
left  him  I  went  down  the  street.  It  seemed 
as  though  everybody  had  heard  of  Carlstrom's 
plans,  and  here  and  there  I  felt  that  the 
secret  hand  of  the  Scotch  Preacher  had  been 
at  work.  At  the  store  where  I  usually 
trade  the  merchant  talked  about  it,  and  the 
postmaster  when  I  went  in  for  my  mail, 
and  the  clerk  at  the  drugstore,and  the  harness- 
maker.  I  had  known  a  good  deal  about 
Carlstrom  in  the  past,  for  one  learns  much 
of  his  neighbours  in  ten  years,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  that  day  as  though  his  history  stood 
out  as  something  separate  and  new  and 
impressive. 

When  he  first  came  here  forty  years  ago  1 
suppose  Carlstrom  was  not  unlike  most  of 
the  foreigners  who  immigrate  to  our  shores, 
fired  with  faith  in  a  free  country.  He  was 
poor  —  as  poor  as  a  man  could  possibly 
be.     For  several  years  he  worked  on  a  farm  — r 


FRIENDSHIP  159 

hard  work,  for  which,  owing  to  his  frail 
physique,  he  was  not  well  fitted.  But  he 
saved  money  constantly,  and  after  a  time  he 
was  able  to  come  to  town  and  open  a  little 
shop.  He  made  nearly  all  of  his  tools  with 
his  own  hands,  he  built  his  own  chimney  and 
forge,  he  even  whittled  out  the  wooden  gun 
which  stands  for  a  sign  over  the  door  of  his 
shop.  He  had  learned  his  trade  in  the  careful 
old-country  way.  Not  only  could  he  mend 
a  gun,  but  he  could  make  one  outright, 
even  to  the  barrel  and  the  wooden  stock, 
[n  all  the  years  I  have  known  him  he  has 
always  had  on  hand  some  such  work  —  once 
I  remember,  a  pistol  —  which  he  was  turning 
out  at  odd  times  for  the  very  satisfaction 
it  gave  him.  He  could  not  sell  one  of  his 
hand-made  guns  for  half  as  much  as  it  cost 
him,  nor  does  he  seem  to  want  to  sell  them, 
preferring  rather  to  have  them  stand  in  the 
corner  of  his  shop  where  he  can  look  at 
them.  His  is  the  incorruptible  spirit  of 
the  artist! 

What  a  tremendous  power  there  is  in 
work.  Carlstrom  worked.  He  was  up  early 
in  the  morning  to  work,  and  he  worked  in  the 
vening  as  long  as  daylight  lasted,  and  once 


«* 


J 


1 60    ADVENTURES  IN   FRIENDSHIP 

I  found  him  in  his  shop  in  the  evening,  bend- 
ing low  over  his  bench  with  a  kerosene  lamp 
in  front  of  him.  He  was  humming  his  in- 
evitable tune  and  smoothing  off  with  a 
fine  file  the  nice  curves  of  a  rifle  trigger. 
When  he  had  trouble  —  and  what  a  lot  of 
it  he  has  had  in  his  time!  —  he  worked;  and 
when  he  was  happy  he  worked  all  the  harder. 
All  the  leisurely  ones  of  the  town  drifted  by, 
all  the  children  and  the  fools,  and  often  rested 
in  the  doorway  of  his  shop.  He  made  them 
all  welcome:  he  talked  with  them,  but  he 
never  stopped  working.  Clang,  clang,  would 
go  his  anvil,  whish,  whish,  would  respond 
his  bellows,  creak,  creak,  would  go  the 
hickory  sweep  —  he  was  helping  the  world 
go   round ! 

All  this  time,  though  he  had  sickness  in 
his  family,  though  his  wife  died,  and  then 
his  children  one  after  another  until  only 
one  now  remains,  he  worked  and  he  saved. 
He  bought  a  lot  and  built  a  house  to  rent; 
then  he  built  another  house;  then  he  bought 
the  land  where  his  shop  stands  and  rebuilt 
the  shop  itself.  It  was  an  epic  of  homely 
work.  He  took  part  in  the  work  of  the 
church    and    on    election    days    he    changed 


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162  ADVENTURES  IN 

his  coat,  and  went  to  the  town  hall  to 
vote. 

\  In  the  years  since  I  have  known  the  old 
gunsmith  and  something  of  the  town  where 
he  works,  I  have  seen  young  men,  born  Ameri- 
cans, with  every  opportunity  and  encourage- 
ment of  a  free  country,  growing  up  there 
and  going  to  waste.  One  day  I  heard  one 
of  them,  sitting  in  front  of  a  store,  grumbling 
about  the  foreigners  who  were  coming 
in  and  taking  up  the  land.  The  young 
man  thought  it  should  be  prevented  by 
law.  I  said  nothing;  but  I  listened  and 
heard  from  the  distance  the  steady  clang, 
clang,  of  Carlstrom's  hammer  upon  the 
anv^il. 

Ketchell,  the  store-keeper,  told  me  how 
Carlstrom  had  longed  and  planned  and  saved 
to  be  able  to  go  back  once  more  to  the  old 
home  he  had  left.  Again  and  again  he  had 
got  almost  enough  money  ahead  to  start, 
and  then  there  would  be  an  interest  payment 
due,  or  a  death  in  the  family,  and  the  money 
would  all  go  to  the  banker,  the  doctor,  or 
the  undertaker. 

"Of  recent  years,"*  said  Ketchell,  "we 
thought  he'd  given  up  the  idea.     His  friend? 


FRIENDSHIP  163 

are  all  here  now,  and  if  he  went  back,  he 
certainly  would  be  disappointed." 

A  sort  of  serenity  seemed,  indeed,  to  come 
upon  him:  his  family  lie  on  the  quiet  hill, 
old  things  and  old  times  have  grown  distant, 
and  upon  that  anvil  of  his  before  the  glowing 
forge  he  has  beaten  out  for  himself  a  real 
place  in  this  community.  He  has  beaten  out 
the  respect  of  a  whole  town;  and  from  the 
crude  human  nature  with  which  he  started 
he  has  fashioned  himself  wisdom,  and  peace 
of  mind,  and  the  ripe  humour  which  sees  that 
God  is  in  his  world.  There  are  men  I  know 
who  read  many  books,  hoping  to  learn  how 
to  be  happy;  let  me  commend  them  to  Carl- 
strom,  the  gunsmith. 

I  have  often  reflected  upon  the  incalculable 
influence  of  one  man  upon  a  community. 
The  town  is  better  for  having  stood  often 
looking  into  the  fire  of  Carlstrom's  forge, 
and  seeing  his  hammer  strike.  I  don't  know 
how  many  times  I  have  heard  men  repeat 
observations  gathered  in  Carlstrom's  shop. 
Only  the  other  day  I  heard  the  village  school 
teacher  say,  when  I  asked  him  why  he  always 
seemed  so  merry  and  had  so  little  fault  to 
find  with  the  world. 


164  ADVENTURES  IN 

"Why,"  he  replied,  "as  Carlstrom,  the  gum 
smith  says,  'when  I  feel  like  finding  fault 
I  always  begin  with  myself  and  then  I  never 
get  any  farther. ' " 

Another  of  Carlstrom's  sayings  is  current 
in  the  country. 

"It's  a  good  thing,'1'  he  says,  "when  a  man 
knows  what  he  pretends  to  know." 

The  more  I  circulated  among  my  friends, 
the  more  I  heard  of  Carlstrom.  It  is  odd 
that  I  should  have  gone  all  these  years 
knowing  Carlstrom,  and  yet  never  consciously 
until  last  w^eek  setting  him  in  his  rightful 
place  among  the  men  I  know.  It  makes 
me  wonder  what  other  great  souls  about  me 
are  thus  concealing  themselves  in  the  guise  of 
familiarity.  This  stooped  gray  neighbour  of 
mine  whom  I  have  seen  so  often  working 
in  his  field  that  he  has  almost  become  a  part 
of  the  landscape  —  who  can  tell  what 
heroisms  may  be  locked  away  from  my 
vision  under  his  old  brown  hat? 

On  Wednesday  night  Carlstrom  was  at 
Dr.  McAlway's  house  —  with  Charles  BaxterT 
my  neighbour  Horace,  and  several  others, 
And  I  had  still  another  view  of  him. 

I    think   there   is    always    something   that 


FRIENDSHIP  165 

surprises  one  in  finding  a  familiar  figure  in 
a  whcily  new  environment.  I  was  so  accus- 
tomed to  the  Caristrom  of  the  gunshop  that  I 
could  not  at  once  reconcile  myself  to  the  Cari- 
strom of  Dr.  McAlway's  sitting  room.  And, 
indeed,  there  was  a  striking  change  in  his 
appearance.  He  came  dressed  in  the  quaint 
black  coat  which  he  wears  at  funerals.  His 
hair  was  brushed  straight  back  from  his 
broad,  smooth  forehead  and  his  mild  blue 
eyes  were  bright  behind  an  especially  shiny 
pair  of  steel-bowed  spectacles.  He  looKed 
more  like  some  old-fashioned  college  pro- 
fessor than  he  did  like  a  smith. 

The  old  gunsmith  had  that  pride  of  humility 
which  is  about  the  best  pride  in  this  world. 
He  was  perfectly  at  home  at  the  Scotch 
Preacher's  hearth.  Indeed,  he  radiated  a 
sort  of  beaming  good  will;  he  had  a  native 
desire  to  make  everything  pleasant.  I  did 
not  realize  before  what  a  fund  of  humour 
the  old  man  had.  The  Scotch  Preacher 
rallied  him  on  the  number  of  houses  he  now 
owns,  and  suggested  that  he  ought  to  get  a 
wife  to  keep  at  least  one  of  them  for  him. 
Caristrom  looked  around  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye. 


166  ADVENTURES  IN 

"When  I  was  a  poor  man,"  he  said,  "and 
.carried  boxes  from  KetchelPs  store  to  help 
build  my  first  shop,  I  used  to  wish  I  had  a 
wheelbarrow.  Now  I  have  four.  When  I 
had  no  house  to  keep  my  family  in,  I 
used  to  wish  that  I  had  one.  Now  I  have 
four.  I  have  thought  sometimes  I  would 
like  a  wife  —  but  I  have  not  dared  to  wish 
for  one." 

The  old  gunsmith  laughed  noiselessly,  and 
then  from  habit,  I  suppose,  began  to  hum  as 
he  does  in  his  shop  —  stopping  instantly, 
however,  when  he  realized  what  he  was 
-doing. 

During  the  evening  the  Scotch  Preacher 
got  me  to  one  side  and  said: 

David,  we  can't  let  the  old  man  go." 
No,  sir,"  I  said,   "we  can't." 

"All  he  needs,  Davy,  is  cheering  up.  It's 
a  cold  world  sometimes  to  the  old." 

I  suppose  the  Scotch  Preacher  was  saying 
the  same  thing  to  all  the  other  men  of  the 
company. 

When  we  were  preparing  to  go,  Dr.  Mc- 
Alway  turned  to  Carlstrom  and  said: 

"How  is  it,  Carlstrom,  that  you  have 
come  to  hold  such  a  place  in  this  community? 


a 

a 


FRIENDSHIP  167 

How    is    is    that    you    have    got    ahead    so 
rapidly?" 

The  old  man  leaned  forward,  beaming 
through   his   spectacles,    and   said   eagerly: 

"It  ist  America;  it  ist  America." 

"No,  Carlstrom,  no  —  it  is  not  all  America. 
It  is  Carlstrom,  too.  You  work,  Carlstrom, 
and  you  save." 

Every  day  since  Wednesday  there  has  been 
a  steady  pressure  on  Carlstrom;  not  so  much 
said  in  words,  but  people  stopping  in  at  the 
shop  and  passing  a  good  word.  But  up  to 
Monday  morning  the  gunsmith  went  forward 
steadily  with  his  preparations  to  leave.  On 
Sunday  I  saw  the  Scotch  Preacher  and  found 
him  perplexed  as  to  what  to  do.  I  don't 
know  yet  positively,  that  he  had  a  hand  in  it, 
though  I  suspect  it,  but  on  Monday  after- 
noon Charles  Baxter  went  by  my  house  on 
his  way  to  town  with  a  broken  saw  in  his 
buggy.  Such  is  the  perversity  of  rival 
artists  that  I  don't  think  Charles  Baxter 
had  ever  been  to  Carlstrom  with  any 
work.  But  this  morning  when  I  went  to 
town  and  stopped  at  Carlstrom's  shop  I 
found  the  gunsmith  humming  louder  than 
ever. 


168  ADVENTURES  IN 

"Well,  Carlstrom,  when  are  we  to  say  good- 
bv?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  not  going,"  he  said,  and  taking  me  by 
the  sleeve  he  led  me  over  to  his  bench  and 
showed  me  a  saw  he  had  mended.  Now,  a 
broken  saw  is  one  of  the  high  tests  of  the 
genius  of  the  mender.  To  put  the  pieces 
together  so  that  the  blade  will  be  perfectly 
smooth,  so  that  the  teeth  match  accurately, 
is  an  art  which  few  workmen  of  to-day  would 
even  attempt. 

"Charles  Baxter  brought  it  in,"  answered 
the  old  gunsmith,  unable  to  conceal  his 
delight.     "He  thought  I  couldn't  mend  it!" 

To  the  true  artist  there  is  nothing  to  equal 
the  approbation  of  a  rival.  It  was  Charles 
Baxter,  I  am  convinced,  who  was  the  deciding 
factor.  Carlstrom  couldn't  leave  with  one 
of  Baxter's  saws  unmended!  But  back  of 
it  all,  I  know,  is  the  hand  and  the  heart  of 
the  Scotch  Preacher. 

The  more  I  think  of  it  the  more  I  think 
that  our  gunsmith  possesses  many  of  the 
qualities  of  true  greatness.  He  has  the  seren- 
ity, and  the  humour,  and  the  humility  of 
greatness.  He  has  a  real  faith  in  God.  He 
works,   he  accepts  what  comes.     He  thinks 


FRIENDSHIP 


169 


there  is  no  more  honourable  calling  than  that 
of    gunsmith,    and    that   the    town    he    lives 
in  is  the  best  of  all  towns,  and  the  people 
he  knows  the  best  people. 
Yes,  it  is  greatness. 


•r- 


THE   MOWING 


****&■*. 


X 

THE  MOWING 


u 


Now  I  see  the  secret  of  the  making  of  the  best  persons, 
It  is  to  grow  in  the  open  air  and  to  eat  and  sleep  with  the 
earth." 


THIS  is  a  well  earned  Sunday  morning. 
My  chores  were  all  done  long  ago, 
and  I  am  sitting  down  here  after  a  late  and 
leisurely  breakfast  with  that  luxurious  feel- 
ing of  irresponsible  restfulness  and  comfort 
which  comes  only  upon  a  clean,  still  Sunday 
morning  like  this  —  after  a  week  of  hard 
work  —  a  clean  Sunday  morning,  with  clean 
clothes,  and  a  clean  chin,  and  clean  thoughts, 

173 


i74  ADVENTURES  IN 

and  the  June  airs  stirring  the  clean  white 
curtains  at  my  windows.  From  across  the 
hills  I  can  hear  very  faintly  the  drowsy 
sounds  of  early  church  bells,  never  indeed 
to  be  heard  here  except  on  a  morning  of 
surpassing  tranquillity.  And  in  the  barn- 
yard back  of  the  house  Harriet's  hens  are 
cackling  triumphantly:  they  are  impiously 
unobservant  of  the  Sabbath  day. 

I  turned  out  my  mare  for  a  run  in  the  pas 
ture.  She  has  rolled  herself  again  and  again 
in  the  warm  earth  and  shaken  herself  after 
each  roll  with  an  equine  delight  most  pleasant 
to  see.  Now,  from  time  to  time,  I  can  hear 
her  gossipy  whickerings  as  she  calls  across  the 
fields  to  my  neighbour  Horace's  young  bay 
colts. 

When  I  first  woke  up  this  morning  I  said 
to  myself: 

"Well,  nothing  happened  yesterday.'1 

Then  I  lay  quiet  for  some  time  —  it  being 
Sunday  morning  —  and  I  turned  over  in 
my  mind  all  that  I  had  heard  or  seen  or  felt 
or  thought  about  in  that  one  day.  And 
presently  I  said  aloud  to  myself: 

"Why,  nearly  everything  happened  yes- 
terday." 


FRIENDSHIP  i7S 

And  the  more  I  thought  of  it  the  more 
interesting,  the  more  wonderful,  the  more 
explanatory  of  high  things,  appeared  the 
common  doings  of  that  June  Saturday.  I 
had  walked  among  unusual  events  —  and 
had  not  known  the  wonder  of  them!  I  had 
eyes,  but  I  did  not  see  —  and  ears,  but  I 
heard  not.  It  may  be,  it  may  be,  that  the 
Future  Life  of  which  we  have  had  such  con- 
fusing but  wistful  prophecies  is  only  the 
reliving  with  a  full  understanding,  of  this 
marvellous  Life  that  we  now  know.  To  a 
full  understanding  this  day,  this  moment 
even  —  here  in  this  quiet  room  —  would 
contain  enough  to  crowd  an  eternity.  Oh, 
we  are  children  yet  —  playing  with  things 
much  too  large  for  us  —  much  too  full  of 
meaning. 

Yesterday  I  cut  my  field  of  early  clover. 
I  should  have  been  at  it  a  full  week  earlier 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  frequent  and  sous- 
ing spring  showers.  Already  half  the  blos- 
soms of  the  clover  had  turned  brown  and 
were  shriveling  away  into  inconspicuous  seedi- 
ness.  The  leaves  underneath  on  the  lower 
parts  of  the  stems  were  curling  up  and  fading; 


176  ADVENTURES  IN 

many  of  them  had  already  dropped  away. 
There  is  a  tide  also  in  the  affairs  of  clover  and 
if  a  farmer  would  profit  by  his  crop,  it  must 
be  taken  at  its  flood. 

I  began  to  watch  the  skies  with  some 
anxiety,  and  on  Thursday  I  was  delighted 
to  see  the  weather  become  clearer,  and  a 
warm  dry  wind  spring  up  from  the  southwest. 
On  Friday  there  was  not  so  much  as  a  cloud 
of  the  size  of  a  man's  hand  to  be  seen  any- 
where in  the  sky,  not  one,  and  the  sun  with 
lively  diligence  had  begun  to  make  up  for  the 
listlessness  of  the  past  week.  It  was  hot  and  dry 
enough  to  suit  the  most  exacting  hay-maker. 

Encouraged  by  these  favourable  symptoms 
I  sent  word  to  Dick  Sheridan  (by  one  of 
Horace's  men)  to  come  over  bright  and  early 
on  Saturday  morning.  My  field  is  only  a 
small  one  and  so  rough  and  uneven  that  I 
had  concluded  with  Dick's  help  to  cut  it  by 
hand.  I  thought  that  on  a  pinch  it  could 
all  be  done  in  one  dav. 

"Harriet,'1  I  said,  "we'll  cut  the  clover 
to-morrow." 

"That's  fortunate,'1  said  Harriet,  "I'd 
already  arranged  to  have  Ann  Spencer  in 
to  help  me." 


FRIENDSHIP  177 

Yesterday  morning,  then,  I  got  out  earlier 
than  usual.  It  was  a  perfect  June  morning, 
one  of  the  brightest  and  clearest  I  think  I 
ever  saw.  The  mists  had  not  yet  risen  from 
the  hollows  of  my  lower  fields,  and  all  the 
earth  was  fresh  with  dew  and  sweet  with 
the  mingled  odours  of  growing  things.  No 
hour  of  the  whole  day  is  more  perfect  than 
this. 

I  walked  out  along  the  edge  of  the  orchard 
and  climbed  the  fence  of  the  field  beyond.  As 
I  stooped  over  I  could  smell  the  heavy  sweet 
odour  of  the  clover  blossoms.  I  could  see 
the  billowy  green  sweep  of  the  glistening 
leaves.  I  lifted  up  a  mass  of  the  tangled 
stems  and  laid  the  palm  of  my  hand  on  the 
earth  underneath.  It  was  neither  too  wet 
nor  too  dry. 

"We  shall  have  good  cutting  to-day," 
I  said  to  myself. 

So  I  stood  up  and  looked  with  a  satis- 
faction impossible  to  describe  across  the 
acres  of  my  small  domain,  marking  where 
in  the  low  spots  the  crop  seemed  heaviest, 
Where  it  was  lodged  and  tangled  by  the  wind 
and  the  rain,  and  where  in  the  higher  spaces 
it  grew  scarce  thick  enough  to  cover  the  sad 


178  ADVENTURES  IN 

baldness  of  the  knolls.  How  much  more 
we  get  out  of  life  than  we  deserve! 

So  I  walked  along  the  edge  of  the  field 
to  the  orchard  gate,  which  I  opened  wide. 

"Here,':   I  said,  ''is  where  we  will  begin." 

So  I  turned  back  to  the  barn.  I  had  not 
reached  the  other  side  of  the  orchard  when 
who  should  I  see  but  Dick  Sheridan  himself, 
coming  in  at  the  lane  gate.  He  had  an  old, 
coarse-woven  straw  hat  stuck  resplendently 
on  the  back  of  his  head.  He  was  carrying 
his  scythe  jauntily  over  his  shoulder  and 
whistling  "Good-bye,  Susan"  at  the  top 
of  his  capacity. 

Dick  Sheridan  is  a  cheerful  young  fellow 
with  a  thin  brown  face  and  (milky)  blue  eyes. 
He  has  an  enormous  Adam's  apple  which  has 
an  odd  way  of  moving  up  and  down  when  he 
talks  —  and  one  large  tooth  out  in  front. 
His  body  is  like  a  bundle  of  wires,  as  thin 
and  muscular  and  enduring  as  that  of  a 
broncho  pony.  He  can  work  all  day  long 
and  then  go  down  to  the  lodge-hall  at  the 
Crossing  and  dance  half  the  night.  You 
should  really  see  hirn  when  he  dances!  He 
can  jump  straight  up  and  click  his  heels 
twice  together  before  he  comes  down  again! 


FRIENDSHIP  179 

On  such  occasions  he  is  marvellously  clad, 
as  befits  the  gallant  that  he  really  is,  but  this 
morning  he  wore  a  faded  shirt  and  one  of 
his  suspender  cords  behind  was  fastened 
with  a  nail  instead  of  a  button.  His  socks 
are  sometimes  pale  blue  and  sometimes 
lavender  and  commonly,  therefore,  he  turns 
up  his  trouser  legs  so  that  these  vanities 
may  not  be  wholly  lost  upon  a  dull  world. 
His  full  name  is  Richard  Tecumseh  Sheridan, 
but  every  one  calls  him  Dick.  A  good,  cheer- 
ful fellow,  Dick,  and  a  hard  worker.  I  like 
him. 

Hello,  Dick,"  I  shouted. 

Hello  yourself,  Mr.  Grayson, ':  he  replied. 

He  hung  his  scythe  in  the  branches  of  a 
pear  tree  and  we  both  turned  into  the  barn- 
yard to  get  the  chores  out  of  the  way.  I 
wanted  to  delay  the  cutting  as  long  as  I 
could  —  until  the  dew  on  the  clover  should 
begin  —  at  least  —  to   disappear. 

By  half-past-seven  we  were  ready  for 
work.  We  rolled  back  our  sleeves,  stood 
our  scythes  on  end  and  gave  them  a  final 
lively  stoning.  You  could  hear  the  brisk 
sound  of  the  ringing  metal  pealing  through 
the  still  morning  air. 


180  ADVENTURES  IN 

"It's  a  great  day  for  haying,"  I  said. 

"A  dang  good  one,':  responded  the  laconic 
Dick,  wetting  his  thumb  to  feel  the  edge 
of  his  scythe. 

I  cannot  convey  with  any  mere  pen  upon 
any  mere  paper  the  feeling  of  jauntiness  I 
had  at  that  moment,  as  of  conquest  and  fresh 
adventure,  as  of  great  things  to  be  done  in 
a  great  world!  You  may  say  if  you  like  that 
this  exhilaration  was  due  to  good  health 
and  the  exuberance  of  youth.  But  it  was 
more  than  that  —  far  more,  j  cannot  well 
express  it,  but  it  seemed  as  though  at  that 
moment  Dick  and  I  were  stepping  out  into 
some  vast  current  of  human  activity:  as 
though  we  had  the  universe  itself  behind  us, 
and  the  warm  regard  and  approval  of  all  men. 

I  stuck  my  whetstone  in  my  hip-pocket, 
bent  forward  and  cut  the  first  short  sharp 
swath  in  the  clover.  I  swept  the  mass  of 
tangled  green  stems  into  the  open  space 
just  outside  the  gate.  Three  or  four  more 
strokes  and  Dick  stopped  whistling  suddenly, 
spat  on  his  hands  and  with  a  lively  "Here 
she  goes!'  came  swinging  in  behind  me. 
The  clover-cutting  had  begun. 

At  first  I  thought  the  heat  would  be  utterly 


FRIENDSHIP  181 

unendurable,  and,  then,  with  dripping  face 
and  wet  shoulders,  I  forgot  all  about  it 
Oh,  there  is  something  incomparable  about 
such  work  —  the  long  steady  pull  of  willing 
and  healthy  muscles,  the  mind  undisturbed 
by  any  disquieting  thought,  the  feeling  of 
attainment  through  vigorous  effort!     It  was 

steady  swing  and  swish,  swish  and  swing! 
When  Dick  led  I  have  a  picture  of  him  in 
my  mind's  eye  —  his  wiry  thin  legs,  one  heel 
lifted  at  each  step  and  held  rigid  for  a  single 
instant,  a  glimpse  of  pale  blue  socks  above 
his  rustv  shoes  and  three  inches  of  whetstone 
sticking  from  his  tight  hip-pocket.  It  was 
good  to  have  him  there  whether  he  led  or 
followed. 

At  each  return  to  the  orchard  end  of  the 
field  we  looked  for  and  found  a  gray  stone 
jug  in  the  grass.  I  had  brought  it  up  with 
me  filled  with  cool  water  from  the  pump. 
Dick  had  a  way  of  swinging  it  up  with  one 
hand,  resting  it  in  his  shoulder,  turning  his 
head  just  so  and  letting  the  water  gurgle 
into  his  throat.  I  have  never  been  able 
myself  to  reach  this  refinement  in  the  art 
of  drinking  from  a  jug. 

And  oh!   the  good  feel  of  a   straightened 


1 82  ADVENTURES  IN 

back  after  two  long  swathes  in  the  broiling 
sun!  We  would  stand  a  moment  in  the 
shade,  whetting  our  scythes,  not  saying  much, 
but  glad  to  be  there  together.  Then  we 
would  go  at  it  again  with  renewed  energy  c 
It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  a  working  com- 
panion. Many  times  that  day  Dick  and  I 
looked  aside  at  each  other  with  a  curious 
sense  of  friendliness  —  that  sense  of  friend- 
liness which  grows  out  of  common  rivalries, 
common  difficulties  and  a  common  weariness. 
We  did  not  talk  much:  and  that  little  of 
trivial  matters. 

"Jim  Brewster's  mare  had  a  colt  on 
Wednesday." 

"This'll  go  three  tons  to  the  acre,  or  I'll 
eat  my  shirt." 

Dick  was  always  about  to  eat  his  shirt 
if  some  particular  prophecy  of  his  did  not 
materialize. 

"Dang  it  all,"  says  Dick,  "the  moon's 
drawin'  water." 

"Something  is  undoubtedly  drawing  it," 
said  I,  wiping  my  dripping  face. 

A  meadow  lark  sprang  up  with  a  song  in 
the  adjoining  field,  a  few  heavy  old  bumble- 
bees droned  in  the  clover  as  we  cut  it,  and 


FRIENDSHIP  183 

once    a    frightened    rabbit    ran    out,    darting . 
swiftly  under  the  orchard  fence. 

So  the  long  forenoon  slipped  away.  At 
times  it  seemed  endless,  and  yet  we  were 
surprised  when  we  heard  the  bell  from  the 
house  (what  a  sound  it  was!)  and  we  left 
our  cutting  in  the  middle  of  the  field,  nor 
waited  for  another  stroke. 

"Hungry,  Dick?"  I  asked. 

"Hungry!"  exclaimed  Dick  with  all  the 
eloquence  of  a  lengthy  oration  crowded  into 
one  word. 

So  we  drifted  through  the  orchard,  and  it 
was  good  to  see  the  house  with  smoke  in 
the  kitchen  chimney,  and  the  shade  of  the  big 
maple  where  it  rested  upon  the  porch.  And 
not  far  from  the  maple  we  could  see  our 
friendly  pump  with  the  moist  boards  of  the 
well-cover  in  front  of  it.  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  good  it  looked  as  we  came  in  from  the 
hot,  dry  fields. 

"After  you,"  says  Dick. 

I  gave  my  sleeves  another  roll  upward 
and  unbuttoned  and  turned  in  the  moist 
collar  of  my  shirt.  Then  I  stooped  over  and 
put  my  head  under  the  pump  spout. 

"Pump,  Dick,"  said  I. 


1 84  ADVENTURES  IN 

And  Dick  pumped. 

"Harder,  Dick,"  said  I  in  a  strangled  voice. 

And  Dick  pumped  still  harder,  and  pres- 
ently I  came  up  gasping  with  my  head  and 
hair  dripping  with  the  cool  water.  Then 
I  pumped  for  Dick. 

"'Gee,  but  that's  good,"  says  Dick. 

Harriet  came  out  with  clean  towels,  and 
we  dried  ourselves,  and  talked  together  in 
low  voices.  And  feeling  a  delicious  sense 
of  coolness  we  sat  down  for  a  moment  in 
the  shade  of  the  maple  and  rested  our  arms 
on  our  knees.  From  the  kitchen,  as  we  sat 
there,  we  could  hear  the  engaging  sounds 
of  preparation,  and  busy  voices,  and  the 
tinkling  of  dishes,  and  agreeable  odours!  Ah, 
friend  and  brother,  there  may  not  be  better 
moments   in  life  than   this! 

So  we  sat  resting,  thinking  of  nothing; 
and  presently  we  heard  the  screen  door  click 
and  Ann  Spencer's  motherly  voice: 

'Come    in    now,    Mr.    Grayson,    and    get 
your  dinner." 

Harriet  had  set  the  table  on  the  east 
porch,  where  it  was  cool  and  shady.  Dick 
and  I  sat  down  opposite  each  other  and  be- 
tween us  there  was  a  great  brown  bowl  of 


FRIENDSHIP  185 

moist  brown  beans  with  crispy  strips  of  pork 
on  top,  and  a  good  steam  rising  from  its 
depths;  and  a  small  mountain  of  baked 
potatoes,  each  a  little  broken  to  show  the 
snowy  white  interior;  and  two  towers  of 
such  new  bread  as  no  one  on  this  earth  (or 
in  any  other  planet  so  far  as  I  know)  but 
Harriet  can  make.  And  before  we  had  even 
begun  our  dinner  in  came  the  ample  Ann 
Spencer,  quaking  with  hospitality,  and  bear- 
ing a  platter  —  let  me  here  speak  of  it  with 
the  bated  breath  of  a  proper  respect,  for  I 
cannot  even  now  think  of  it  without  a  sort 
of  inner  thrill  —  bearing  a  platter  of  her  most 
famous  fried  chicken.  Harriet  had  sacri- 
ficed the  promising  careers  of  two  young 
roosters  upon  the  altar  of  this  important 
occasion.  I  may  say  in  passing  that  Ann 
Spencer  is  more  celebrated  in  our  neighbour- 
hood by  virtue  of  her  genius  at  frying  chicken, 
than  Aristotle  or  Solomon  or  Socrates,  or 
indeed  all  the  big-wigs  of  the  past  rolled 
into  one. 

So  we  fell  to  with  a  silent  but  none  the  less 
fervid  enthusiasm.  Harriet  hovered  about 
us,  in  and  out  of  the  kitchen,  and  poured  the 
tea    and    the    buttermilk,  and  Ann   Spencer 


1 86  ADVENTURES  IN 

upon    every    possible    occasion    passed    the 
chicken. 

"More  chicken,  Mr.  Grayson?"  she  would 
inquire  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  made  your 
mouth  water. 

"More  chicken,  Dick?"  I'd  ask. 

"More  chicken,  Mr.  Grayson,"  he  would 
respond  —  and  thus  we  kept  up  a  tenuous, 
but  pleasant  little  joke  between  us. 

Just  outside  the  porch  in  a  thicket  of  lilacs 
a  catbird  sang  to  us  while  we  ate,  and  my 
dog  lay  in  the  shade  with  his  nose  on  his  paws 
and  one  eye  open  just  enough  to  show  any 
stray  flies  that  he  was  not  to  be  trifled  with 
—  and  far  away  to  the  North  and  East  one 
could  catch  glimpses  —  if  he  had  eyes  for 
such  things  —  of  the  wide-stretching  pleas- 
antness of  our  countryside. 

I  soon  saw  that  something  mysterious 
was  going  on  in  the  kitchen.  Harriet  would 
look  significantly  at  Ann  Spencer  and  Ann 
Spencer,  who  could  scarcely  contain  her 
overflowing  smiles,  would  look  significantly 
at  Harriet.  As  for  me,  I  sat  there  with  per- 
fect confidence  in  myself  —  in  my  ultimate 
capacity,  as  it  were.  Whatever  happened, 
I  was  ready  for  it! 


FRIENDSHIP  187 

And  the  great  surprise  came  at  last:  a 
SHORT-CAKE:  a  great,  big,  red,  juicy, 
buttery,  sugary  short-cake,  with  raspberries 
heaped  up  all  over  it.  When  It  came  in  — 
and  I  am  speaking  of  it  in  that  personal 
way  because  it  radiated  such  an  effulgence 
that  I  cannot  now  remember  whether  it 
was  Harriet  or  Ann  Spencer  who  brought 
it  in  —  when  It  came  in,  Dick,  who  pretends 
to  be  abashed  upon  such  occasions,  gave 
one  swift  glance  upward  and  then  emitted 
a  long,  low,  expressive  whistle.  When  Bee- 
thoven found  himself  throbbing  with  un- 
describable  emotions  he  composed  a  sonata; 
when  Keats  felt  odd  things  stirring  within 
him  he  wrote  an  ode  to  an  urn,  but  my 
friend  Dick,  quite  as  evidently  on  fire  with 
his  emotions,  merely  whistled  —  and  then 
looked  around  evidently  embarrassed  lest  he 
should  have  infringed  upon  the  proprieties 
of  that  occasion. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "you  and  Ann  Spencer 
are  benefactors  of  the  human  race.': 

"Go  'way  now,"  said  Ann  Spencer,  shak- 
ing  all   over  with   pleasure,    "and   eat  your 
short-cake." 
'    And  after  dinner  how  pleasant  it  was  to 


188  ADVENTURES  IN 

stretch  at  full  length  for  a  few  minutes  on 
the  grass  in  the  shade  of  the  maple  tree  and 
look  up  through  the  dusky  thick  shadows 
of  the  leaves.  If  ever  a  man  feels  the  bliss- 
fulness  of  complete  content  it  is  at  such  a 
moment  —  every  muscle  in  the  body  de 
liciously  resting,  and  a  peculiar  exhilaration 
animating  the  mind  to  quiet  thoughts.  I 
have  heard  talk  of  the  hard  work  of  the  hay- 
fields,  but  I  never  yet  knew  a  healthy  man 
who  did  not  recall  many  moments  of  exquisite 
pleasure  connected  with  the  hardest  and  the 
hottest  work. 

I  think  sometimes  that  the  nearer  a  man 
can  place  himself  in  the  full  current  of  natural 
things  the  happier  he  is.  If  he  can  become 
a  part  of  the  Universal  Process  and  know 
that  he  is  a  part,  that  is  happiness.  All  day 
yesterday  I  had  that  deep  quiet  feeling  that 
I  was  somehow  not  working  for  myself,  not 
because  I  was  covetous  for  money,  nor 
driven  by  fear,  not  surely  for  fame,  but 
somehow  that  I  was  a  necessary  element  in 
the  processes  of  the  earth.  I  was  a  primal 
force!  I  was  the  indispensable  Harvester. 
Without  me  the  earth  could  not  revolve! 

Oh,  friend,  there  are  spiritual  values  here, 


FRIENDSHIP  189 

too.  For  how  can  a  man  know  God  with- 
out yielding  himself  fully  to  the  processes 
of  God? 

I  lived  yesterday.  I  played  my  part.  I 
took  my  place.  And  all  hard  things  grew 
simple,  and  all  crooked  things  seemed  straight, 
and  all  roads  were  open  and  clear  before 
me.  Many  times  that  day  I  paused  and 
looked  up  from  my  work  knowing  that  I 
had  something  to  be  happy  for. 

At  one  o'clock  Dick  and  I  lagged  our  way 
unwillingly  out  to  work  again  —  rusty  of 
muscles,  with  a  feeling  that  the  heat  would 
now  surely  be  unendurable  and  the  work 
impossibly  hard.  The  scythes  were  oddly 
heavy  and  hot  to  the  touch,  and  the  stones 
seemed  hardly  to  make  a  sound  in  the  heavy 
noon  air.  The  cows  had  sought  the  shady 
pasture  edges,  the  birds  were  still,  all  the  air 
shook  with  heat.     Only  man  must  toil! 

"It's  danged  hot,"  said  Dick  conclusively. 

How  reluctantly  we  began  the  work  and 
how  difficult  it  seemed  compared  with  the 
task  of  the  morning!  In  half  an  hour,  how- 
ever, the  reluctance  passed  away  and  we  were 
swinging  as  steadily  as  we  did  at  any  time 
in    the    forenoon.     But    we    said    less  - —  if 


i9o  ADVENTURES  IN 

that  were  possible  —  and  made  every  ounce 
of  energy  count.  I  shall  not  here  attempt  to 
chronicle  all  the  events  of  the  afternoon, 
how  we  finished  the  mowing  of  the  field  and 
how  we  went  over  it  swiftly  and  raked  the  long 
windrows  into  cocks,  or  how,  as  the  evening 
began  to  fall,  we  turned  at  last  wearily 
toward  the  house.    The  day's  work  was  done. 

Dick    had    stopped    whistling   long   before 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  but  now  as  he 
shouldered  his  scythe  he  struck  up  "  My  Fairy 
Fay'     with    some    marks    of   his    earlier   en 
thusiasm. 

"Well,  Dick,"  said  I,  "we've  had  a  good 
day's  work  together." 

"You  bet,"  said  Dick, 

And  I  watched  him  as  he  went  down  the 
lane  with  a  pleasant  friendly  feeling  of  com- 
panionship. We  had  done  great  things 
together. 

I  wonder  if  you  ever  felt  the  joy  of  utter 
physical  weariness:  not  exhaustion,  but 
weariness.  I  wonder  if  you  have  ever  sat 
down,  as  I  did  last  night,  and  felt  as  though 
you  would  like  to  remain  just  there  always 
—  without  stirring  a  single  muscle,  without 
speaking,  without  thinking  even! 


FRIENDSHIP 


191 


Such  a  moment  is  not  painful,  but  quite  the 
reverse  —  it  is  supremely  pleasant.  So  I 
sat  for  a  time  last  evening  on  my  porch.  The 
cool,  still  night  had  fallen  sweetly  after  the 
burning  heat  of  the  day.  I  heard  all  the 
familiar  sounds  of  the  night.  A  whippoor- 
will  began  to  whistle  in  the  distant  thicket. 
Harriet  came  out  quietly  —  I  could  see  the 
white  of  her  gown  —  and  sat  near  mec  I 
heard  the  occasional  sleepy  tinkle  of  a  cow- 
bell, and  the  crickets  were  calling,  A  star 
or  two  came  out  in  the  perfect  dark  blue  of 
the  sky.  The  deep,  sweet,  restful  night 
was  on.  I  don't  know  that  I  said  it  aloud 
—  such  things  need  not  be  said  aloud  — 
but  as  I  turned  almost  numbly  into  the 
house,  stumbling  on  my  way  to  bed,  my 
whole  being  seemed  to  cry  out:  "Thank  God, 
thank  God." 


AN   OLD   MAN 


i  ■^SstfiSte 


XI 

AN  OLD  MAN 

TO-DAY  I  saw  Uncle  Richard  Summers 
walking:  in  the  town  road:  and  cannot 
get  him  out  of  my  mind.  I  think  I  never 
knew  any  one  who  wears  so  plainly  the 
garment  of  Detached  Old  Age  as  he.  One 
would  not  now  think  of  calling  him  a  farmer, 
any  more  than  one  would  think  of  calling 
him  a  doctor,  or  a  lawyer,  or  a  justice  of 
the  peace.  No  one  would  think  now  of 
calling  him  " Squire  Summers,'  though  he 
bore  that  name  with  no  small  credit  many 
years  ago.  He  is  no  longer  known  as  hard- 
working, or  able,  or  grasping,  or  rich,  or 
wicked:  he  is  just  Old.  Everything  seems 
to  have  been  stripped  away  from  Uncle 
Richard  except  age. 

195 


196  ADVENTURES  IN 

How  well  I  remember  the  first  time  Uncle 
Richard  Summers  impressed  himself  upon 
my  mind.  It  was  after  the  funeral  of  his 
old  wife,  now  several  years  ago.  I  saw  him 
standing  at  the  open  grave  with  his  broad- 
brimmed  felt  hat  held  at  his  breast.  His 
head  was  bowed  and  his  thin,  soft,  white 
hair  stirred  in  the  warm  breeze.  I  wondered 
at  his  quietude.  After  fifty  years  or  more 
together  his  nearest  companion  and  friend 
had  gone,  and  he  did  not  weep  aloud.  After- 
ward I  was  again  impressed  with  the  same 
fortitude  or  quietude.  I  saw  him  walking 
down  the  long  drive  to  the  main  road  with 
all  the  friends  of  our  neighbourhood  about 
him  —  and  the  trees  rising  full  and  calm 
on  one  side,  and  the  still  greenery  of  the 
cemetery  stretching  away  on  the  other. 
Half  way  down  the  drive  he  turned  aside 
to  the  fence  and  all  unconscious  of  the  halted 
procession,  he  picked  a  handful  of  the  large 
leaves  of  the  wild  grape.  It  was  a  hot  day; 
he  took  off  his  hat,  and  put  the  cool  leaves 
in  the  crown  of  it  and  rejoined  the  procession. 
It  did  not  seem  to  me  to  be  the  mere  forget- 
fulness  of  old  age,  nor  yet  callousness  to  his 
own  great  sorrow.     -It  was  rather  an  instinc- 


FRIENDSHIP  197 

tive  return  to  the  immeasureable  continuity 
of  the  trivial  things  of  life  —  the  trivial 
necessary  things  which  so  often  carry  us 
over  the  greatest  tragedies. 

I  talked  with  the  Scotch  Preacher  after- 
ward about  the  incident.  He  said  that  he, 
too,  marveling  at  the  old  man's  calmness, 
had  referred  to  it  in  his  presence.  Uncle 
Richard  turned  to  him  and  said  slowly: 

"I  am  an  old  man,  and  I  have  learned  one 
thing.     I   have   learned   to   accept  life." 

Since  that  day  I  have  seen  Uncle  Richard 
Summers  many  times  walking  on  the  country 
roads  with  his  cane.  He  always  looks 
around  at  me  and  slowly  nods  his  head,  but 
rarely  says  anything.  At  his  age  what  is 
there  to  say  that  has  not  already  been  said? 

His  trousers  appear  a  size  too  large  for  him, 
his  hat  sets  too  far  down,  his  hands  are  long 
and  thin  upon  the  head  of  his  cane.  But 
his  face  is  tranquil.  He  has  come  a  long 
way;  there  have  been  times  of  tempest  and 
keen  winds,  there  have  been  wild  hills  in 
his  road,  and  rocky  places,  and  threatening 
voices  in  the  air.  All  that  is  past  now:  and 
his  face  is  tranquil. 

I   think  we  younger  people   do   not  often 


198  ADVENTURES  IN 

realize  how  keenly  dependent  we  are  upon 
our  contemporaries  in  age.  We  get  little 
understanding  and  sympathy  either  above 
or  below  them.  Much  of  the  world  is  a  little 
misty  to  us,  a  little  out  of  focus.  Uncle 
Richard  Summers's  contemporaries  have 
nearly  all  gone  —  mostly  long  ago :  one  of 
the  last,  his  old  wife.  At  his  home  —  I 
have  been  there  often  to  see  his  son  —  he 
sits  in  a  large  rocking  chair  with  a  cushion 
in  it,  and  a  comfortable  high  back  to  lean 
upon.  No  one  else  ventures  to  sit  in  his  chair, 
even  when  he  is  not  there.  It  is  not  far 
from  the  window;  and  when  he  sits  down  he 
can  lean  his  cane  against  the  wall  where 
he  can  easily  reach  it  again. 

There  is  a  turmoil  of  youth  and  life  always 
about  him;  of  fevered  incomings  and  excited 
outgoings,  of  work  and  laughter  and  tears 
and  joy  and  anger.  He  watches  it  all,  for 
his  mind  is  still  clear,  but  he  does  not  take 
sides.  He  accepts  everything,  refuses  nothing; 
or,  if  you  like,  he  refuses  everything,  accepts 
nothing. 

He  once  owned  the  house  where  he  now 
lives,  with  the  great  barns  behind  it  and  the 
fertile    acres    spreading   far   on    every   hand. 


FRIENDSHIP  199 

From  his  chair  he  can  look  out  through  a 
small  window,  and  see  the  sun  on  the  quiet 
fields.  He  once  went  out  swiftly  and 
strongly,  he  worked  hotly,  he  came  in  wearied 
to  sleep. 

Now  he  lives  in  a  small  room  —  and  that 
is  more  than  is  really  necessary  —  and  when 
he  walks  out  he  does  not  inquire  who  owns 
the  land  where  he  treads.  He  lets  the  hot 
world  go  by,  and  waits  with  patience  the 
logic  of  events. 

Often  as  I  have  passed  him  in  the  road, 
I  have  wondered,  as  I  have  been  wondering 
to-day,  how  he  must  look  out  upon  us  all, 
upon  our  excited  comings  and  goings,  our 
immense  concern  over  the  immeasurably 
trivial.  I  have  wondered,  not  without  a 
pang,  and  a  resolution,  whether  I  shall  ever 
reach  the  point  where  I  can  let  this  eager 
and  fascinating  world  go  by  without  taking 
toll  of  it! 


THE  CELEBRITY 


XII 
THE    CELEBRITY 


NOT  for  many  weeks  have  I  had  a  more 
interesting,  more  illuminating,  and 
when  all  is  told,  a  more  amusing  experience, 
than  I  had  this  afternoon.  Since  this  after- 
noon the  world  has  seemed  a  more  satis- 
factory place  to  live  in,  and  my  own  home 
here,  the  most  satisfactory,  the  most  central 
place  in  all  the  world.  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  anything  may  happen  here! 

We    have    had    a    celebrity    in    our    small 
midst,  and  the  hills,    as   the  Psalmist  might 

233 


204  ADVENTURES  IN 

say,  have  lifted  up  their  heads,  and  the  trees 
have  clapped  their  hands  together.  He  came 
here  last  Tuesday  evening  and  spoke  at  the 
School  House.  I  was  not  there  myself;  if 
I  had  been,  I  should  not,  perhaps,  have 
had  the  adventure  which  has  made  this 
day  so  livable,  nor  met  the  Celebrity  face 
to  face. 

Let  me  here  set  down  a  close  secret  regard- 
ing celebrities: 

They  cannot  survive  without  common  people 
like  you  and  me. 

It  follows  that  if  we  do  not  pursue  a  celeb- 
rity, sooner  or  later  he  will  pursue  us.  He 
must;  it  is  the  law  of  his  being.  So  I  wait 
here  very  comfortably  on  my  farm,  and  as  I 
work  in  my  fields  I  glance  up  casually  from 
time  to  time  to  see  if  any  celebrities  are  by 
chance  coming  up  the  town  road  to  seek  me 
out.  Oh,  we  are  crusty  people,  we  farmers! 
Sooner  or  later  they  all  come  this  way,  all 
the  warriors  and  the  poets,  all  the  philos- 
ophers and  the  prophets  and  the  politicians. 
If  they  do  not,  indeed,  get  time  to  come 
before  they  are  dead,  we  have  full  assurance 
that  they  will  straggle  along  afterward  clad 
neatly  in  sheepskin,  or  more  gorgeously  in 


FRIENDSHIP  205 

green  buckram  with  gilt  lettering.  What- 
ever the  airs  of  pompous  importance  they 
may  assume  as  they  come,  back  of  it  all  we 
farmers  can  see  the  look  of  wistful  eagerness 
in  their  eyes.  They  know  well  enough  that 
they  must  give  us  something  which  we  in  our 
commonness  regard  as  valuable  enough  to 
exchange  for  a  bushel  of  our  potatoes,  or  a 
sack  of  our  white  onions.  No  poem  that  we 
can  enjoy,  no  speech  that  tickles  us,  no 
prophecy  that  thrills  us  —  neither  dinner 
nor  immortality  for  them!  And  we  are 
hard-headed  Yankees  at  our  bargainings; 
many  a  puffed-up  celebrity  loses  his  pufhness 
at  our  doors! 

This  afternoon,  as  I  came  out  on  my  porch 
after  dinner,  feeling  content  with  myself  and 
all  the  world,  I  saw  a  man  driving  our  way 
in  a  one-horse  top-buggy.  In  the  country 
it  is  our  custom  first  to  identify  the  horse, 
and  that  gives  us  a  sure  clue  to  the  identi- 
fication of  the  driver.  This  horse  plainly  did 
not  belong  in  our  neighbourhood  and  plainly 
as  it  drew  nearer,  it  bore  the  unmistakable 
marks  of  the  town  livery.  Therefore,  the 
driver,  in  all  probability,  was  a   stranger  in 


2o6  ADVENTURES  IN 

these  parts.  What  strangers  were  in  town 
who  would  wish  to  drive  this  way?  The 
man  who  occupied  the  buggy  was  large  and 
slow-looking;  he  wore  a  black,  broad-brimmed 
felt  hat  and  a  black  coat,  a  man  evidently  of 
some  presence.  And  he  drove  slowly  and 
awkwardly;  not  an  agent  plainly.  Thus  the 
logic  of  the  country  bore  fruitage. 

"Harriet,'1  I  said,  calling  through  the 
open  doorway,  "I  think  the  Honourable 
Arthur  Caldwell  is  coming  here." 

" Mercy  me!'  exclaimed  Harriet,  appear- 
ing in  the  doorway,  and  as  quickly  disappear- 
ing. I  did  not  see  her,  of  course,  but  I  knew 
instinctively  that  she  was  slipping  off  her 
apron,  moving  our  most  celebrated  rocking- 
chair  two  inches  nearer  the  door,  and  whisk- 
ing a  few  invisible  particles  of  dust  from  the 
centre  table.  Every  time  any  one  of  impor- 
tance comes  our  way,  or  is  distantly  likely 
to  come  our  way,  Harriet  resolves  herself 
into  an  amiable  whirlwind  of  good  order, 
subsiding  into  placidity  at  the  first  sound 
of  a  step  on  the  porch. 

As  for  me  I  remain  in  my  shirt  sleeves, 
sitting  on  my  porch  resting  a  moment  after 
rny  dinner.     No  sir,  I  will  positively  not  go  irv 


FRIENDSHIP  207 

and  get  my  coat.  I  am  an  American  citizen, 
at  home  in  my  house  with  the  sceptre  of  my 
dominion  —  my  favourite  daily  newspaper 
—  in  my  hand.  Let  all  kings,  queens,  and 
other    potentates    approach! 

And  besides,  though  I  am  really  much 
afraid  that  the  Honourable  Arthur  Caldwell 
will  not  stop  at  my  gate  but  will  pass  on 
toward  Horace's,  I  am  nursing  a  somewhat 
light  opinion  of  Mr.  Caldwell.  When  he 
spoke  at  the  School  House  on  Tuesday,  I 
did  not  go  to  hear  him,  nor  was  my  opinion 
greatly  changed  by  what  I  learned  afterward 
of  the  meeting.  I  take  both  of  our  weekly 
county  papers.  This  is  necessary.  I  add 
the  news  of  both  together,  divide  by  two  to- 
strike  a  fair  average,  and  then  ask  Horace, 
or  Charles  Baxter,  or  the  Scotch  Preacher 
what  really  happened.  The  Republican 
county  paper  said  of  the  meeting: 

"The  Honourable  Arthur  Caldwell,  mem- 
ber of  Congress,  who  is  seeking  a  reelection,, 
was  accorded  a  most  enthusiastic  reception 
by  a  large  and  sympathetic  audience  of  the 
citizens  of  Blandford  township  on  Tuesday 
evening." 

Strangely   enough   the   Democratic   paper., 


2o8  ADVENTURES  IN 

observing  exactly  the  same  historic  events, 
took  this  jaundiced  view  of  the  matter: 

"Arty  Caldwell,  Republican  boss  of  the 
Sixth  District,  who  is  out  mending  his  polit- 
ical fences,  spellbound  a  handful  of  his 
henchmen  at  the  School  House  near  Bland- 
ford  Crossing  on  Tuesday  evening." 

And  here  was  Mr.  Caldwell  himself,  Mem- 
ber of  Congress,  Leader  of  the  Sixth  District, 
Favourably  Mentioned  for  Governor,  draw- 
ing up  at  my  gate,  deliberately  descending 
from  his  buggy,  with  dignity  stopping  to 
take  the  tie-rein  from  under  the  seat,  care- 
fully tying  his  horse  to  my  hitching-post. 

I  confess  I  could  not  help  feeling  a  thrill 
of  excitement.  Here  was  a  veritable  Celeb- 
rity come  to  my  house  to  explain  himself! 
I  would  not  have  it  known,  of  course,  out- 
side of  our  select  circle  of  friends,  but  I  confess 
that  although  I  am  a  pretty  independent 
person  (when  I  talk)  in  reality  there  are  few 
things  in  this  world  I  would  rather  see  than 
a  new  person  coming  up  the  walk  to  my  door. 
We  cannot,  of  course,  let  the  celebrities  know 
it,  lest  they  grow  intolerable  in  their  top- 
loftiness,  but  if  they  must  have  us,  we  cannot 
well  get  along  without  them  —  without  the 


FRIENDSHIP  209 

colour  and  variety  which  they  lend  to  a  gray 
world.  I  have  spent  many  a  precious  mo- 
ment alone  in  my  fields  looking  up  the  road 
(with  what  wistful  casualness !)  for  some  new 
Socrates  or  Mark  Twain,  and  I  have  not 
been  wholly  disappointed  when  I  have  had 
to  content  myself  with  the  Travelling  Evan- 
gelist or  the  Syrian  Woman  who  comes  this 
way  monthly  bearing  her  pack  of  cheap 
suspenders  and  blue  bandana  handkerchiefs. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Grayson,'1  said  the 
Honourable  Mr.  Caldwell,  taking  off  his 
large  hat  and  pausing  with  one  foot  on  my 
step. 

"Good  afternoon,  sir,"  I  responded,  "won't 
you  come  up?" 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair  opposite  me  with 
a  certain  measured  and  altogether  impressive 
dignity.  I  cannot  say  that  he  was  exactly 
condescending  in  his  manners,  yet  he  made 
me  feel  that  it  was  no  small  honour  to  have 
so  considerable  a  person  sitting  there  on  the 
porch  with  me.  At  the  same  time  he  was 
outwardly  not  without  a  sort  of  patient 
deference  which  was  evidently  calculated 
to  put  me  at  my  ease.  Oh,  he  had  all  the 
arts    of   the    schooled    politician!     He  -knew 


210  ADVENTURES  IN 

to  the  last  shading  just  the  attitude  that  he 
as  a  great  man,  a  leader  in  Congress,  a 
dominant  force  in  his  party,  a  possible  candi- 
date for  Governor  (and  yet  always  a  seeker 
for  the  votes  of  the  people!)  must  observe 
in  approaching  a  free  farmer  —  like  me  — 
sitting  at  ease  in  his  shirt-sleeves  on  his  own 
porch,  taking  a  moment's  rest  after  dinner. 
It  was  a  perfect  thing  to  see! 

He  had  evidently  heard,  what  was  not 
altogether  true,  that  I  was  a  questioner  of 
authority,  a  disturber  of  the  political  peace, 
and  that  (concretely)  I  was  opposing  him 
for  reelection.  And  it  was  as  plain  as  a  pike- 
staff that  he  was  here  to  lay  down  the  polit- 
ical law  to  me.  He  would  do  it  smilingly  and 
patiently,  but  firmly.  He  would  use  all  the 
leverage  of  his  place,  his  power,  his  personal 
appearance,  to  crush  the  presumptuous  up- 
rising against  his  authority. 

I  confess  my  spirits  rose  at  the  thought. 
What  in  this  world  is  more  enthralling  than 
the  meeting  of  an  unknown  adversary  upon 
the  open  field,  and  jousting  him  a  tourney. 
I  felt  like  some  modern  Robin  Hood  facing 
the  panoplied  authority  of  the  King's  man. 

And  what  a  place  and  time  it  was  for  a 


FRIENDSHIP  211 

combat  —  in  the  quietude  of  the  summer 
afternoon,  no  sound  anywhere  breaking  the 
still  warmth  and  sweetness  except  the  buzzing 
of  bees  in  the  clematis  at  the  end  of  the 
porch  —  and  all  about  the  green  country- 
side, woods  and  fields  and  old  fences  ■ —  and 
the  brown  road  leading  its  venturesome  way 
across  a  distant  hill  toward  the  town. 

After  explaining  who  he  was  —  I  told  him 
I  had  recognized  him  on  sight  —  we  opened 
with  a  volley  of  small  shot.  We  peppered  one 
another  with  harmless  comments  on  the 
weather  and  the  state  of  the  crops.  He  ad- 
vanced cabbages  and  I  countered  with  sugar- 
beets.  I  am  quite  aware  that  there  are  good 
tacticians  who  deprecate  the  use  of  skirmish 
lines  and  the  desultory  fire  of  the  musketry 
of  small  talk.  They  would  advance  in  grim 
silence  and  open  at  once  with  the  crushing 
fire  of  their  biggest  guns- 

But  such  fighting  is  not  for  me.  I  should 
lose  half  the  joy  of  the  battle,  and  kill  off 
my  adversary  before  I  had  begun  to  like  him! 
It  wouldn't  do,  it  wouldn't  do  at  all. 

"It's  a  warm  day,"  observes  my  opponent, 
and  I  take  a  sure  measure  of  his  fighting 
torm.      I  rather  like  the  look  of  his  eye. 


212  ADVENTURES  IN 

"I  never  saw  the  corn  ripening  better/* 
I  observe,  and  let  him  feel  a  little  of  the 
cunning  of  the  arrangement  of  my  forces. 

There  is  much  in  the  tone  of  the  voice, 
the  cut  of  the  words,  the  turn  of  a  phrase. 
I  can  be  your  servant  with  a  "Yes  sir,"  or 
your  master  with  a  "No  sir." 

Thus  we  warm  up  to  one  another  — ■  a 
little  at  a  time  —  we  mass  our  forces,  each 
sees  the  white  of  his  adversary's  eyes.  I 
can  even  see  my  opponent  —  with  some  joy 
—  trotting  up  his  reserves,  having  found  the 
opposition  stronger  than  he  at  first  supposed. 

"I  hear,':  said  Mr.  Caldwell,  finally,  with 
a  smile  intended  to  be  disarming,  "that  you 
are  opposing  my  reelection/' 

Boom!  the  cannon's  opening  roar! 

'Well,':  I  replied,  also  smiling,  and  not 
to  be  outdone  in  the  directness  of  mv  thrust, 
"I  have  told  a  few  of  mv  friends  that  I 
thought  Mr.  Gaylord  would  represent  us 
better  in  Congress  than  you  have  done," 

Boom!  the  fight  is  on! 
:You  are  a  Republican,   aren't  you?  Mr, 
Grayson?" 

It  was  the  inevitable  next  stroke.  When 
he  found  that  I  was  a  doubtful  follower  of 


FRIENDSHIP  213 

him  personally,  he  marshalled  the  Authority 
of  the  Institution  which  he  represented. 

"I  have  voted  the  Republican  ticket," 
I  said,  "but  I  confess  that  recently  I  have 
not  been  able  to  distinguish  Republicans 
from  Democrats  —  and  I've  had  my  doubts," 
said  I,  "  whether  there  is  any  real  Republican 
party  left  to  vote  with." 

I  cannot  well  describe  the  expression  on  his 
face,  nor  indeed,  now  that  the  battle  was  on, 
horsemen,  footmen,  and  big  guns,  shall  I 
attempt  to  chronicle  every  stroke  and  counter- 
stroke  of  that  great  conflict. 

This  much  is  certain:  there  was  something 
universal  and  primal  about  the  battle  waged 
this  quiet  afternoon  on  my  porch  between 
Mr.  Caldwell  and  me;  it  was  the  primal 
struggle  between  the  leader  and  the  follower; 
between  the  representative  and  the  repre- 
sented. And  it  is  a  never-ending  conflict. 
When  the  leader  gains  a  small  advantage  the 
pendulum  of  civilization  swings  toward  aris- 
tocracy; and  when  the  follower,  beginning 
to  think,  beginning  to  struggle,  gains  a  small 
advantage,  then  the  pendulum  inclines  to- 
ward democracy. 

And  always,  and  always,  the  leaders  tend 


214    ADVENTURES  IN    FRIENDSHIP 

to  forget  that  they  are  only  servants,  and 
would  be  masters.  "The  unending  audacity 
of  elected  persons!'  And  always,  and  al- 
ways, there  must  be  a  following  bold  enough 
to  prick  the  pretensions  of  the  leaders  and 
keep  them  in  their  places ! 

Thus,  through  the  long  still  afternoon,  the 
battle  waged  upon  my  porch.  Harriet  came 
out  and  met  the  Honourable  Mr.  Caldwell, 
and  sat  and  listened,  and  presently  went  in 
again,  without  having  got  half  a  dozen  words 
into  the  conversation.  And  the  bees  buzzed, 
and  in  the  meadows  the  cows  began  to  come 
out  of  the  shade  to  feed  in  the  open  land. 

Gradually,  Mr.  Caldwell  put  off  his  air 
of  condescension;  he  put  off  his  appeal  to 
party  authority;  he  even  stopped  arguing 
the  tariff  and  the  railroad  question.  Grad- 
ually, he  ceased  to  be  the  great  man,  Favour- 
ably Mentioned  for  Governor,  and  came 
down  on  the  ground  with  me.  He  moved 
his  chair  up  closer  to  mine;  he  put  his  hand 
on  my  knee.  For  the  first  time  I  began  to 
see  what  manner  of  man  he  was:  to  find 
out  how  much  real  fight  he  had  in  him* 

"You  don't  understand,'1  he  said,  "what 
it  means  to  be  down  there  at  Washington 


U  HE  MOVED  HIS  CHAIR  CLOSER  TO  MINE  " 


216  ADVENTURES  IN 

in  a  time  like  this.  Things  clear  to  you  are 
not  clear  when  you  have  to  meet  men  in  the 
committees  and  on  the  floor  of  the  house  who 
have  a  contrary  view  from  yours  and  hold 
to  it  just  as  tenaciously  as  you  do  to  your 
views." 

Well,  sir,  he  gave  me  quite  a  new  impression 
of  what  a  Congressman's  job  was  like,  of 
what  difficulties  and  dissensions  he  had  to 
meet  at  home,  and  what  compromises  he  had 
to  accept  when  he  reached  Washington. 

"Do  you  know,':  I  said  to  him,  with  some 
enthusiasm,  "I  am  more  than  ever  con- 
vinced that  farming  is  good  enough  for  me.'1 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  up- 
roariously, and  then  moved  up  still  closer. 

"The  trouble  with  you,  Mr.  Grayson,"  he 
said,  "is  that  you  are  looking  for  a  giant 
intellect  to  represent  you  at  Washington." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I'm  afraid  I  am." 

"Well,"  he  returned,  "they  don't  happen 
along  every  day.  I'd  like  to  see  the  House 
of  Representatives  full  of  Washingtons  and 
Jeffersons  and  Websters  and  Roosevelts. 
But  there's  a  Lincoln  only  once  in  a  century.'1 

He  paused  and  then  added  with  a  sort  of 
wry  smile: 


FRIENDSHIP  217 

"And  any  quantity  of  Caldwells ! " 

That  took  me!  I  liked  him  for  it.  It 
was  so  explanatory.  The  armour  of  political 
artifice,  the  symbols  of  political  power,  had 
now  all  dropped  away  from  him,  and  we  sat 
there  together,  two  plain  and  friendly  human 
beings,  arriving  through  stress  and  struggle 
at  a  common  understanding.  He  was  not  a 
great  leader,  not  a  statesman  at  all,  but 
plainly  a  man  of  determination,  with  a  fair 
measure  of  intelligence  and  sincerity.  He 
had  a  human  desire  to  stay  in  Congress,  for 
the  life  evidently  pleased  him,  and  while  he 
would  never  be  crucified  as  a  prophet,  I  felt  — 
what  I  had  not  felt  before  in  regard  to  him  — 
that  he  was  sincerely  anxious  to  serve  the 
best  interests  of  his  constituents.  Added 
to  these  qualities  he  was  a  man  who  was 
loyal  to  his  friends;  and  not  ungenerous  to 
his  enemies. 

Up  to  this  time  he  had  done  most  of  the 
talking;  but  now,  having  reached  a  common 
basis,  I  leaned  forward  with  some  eagerness. 

"You  won't  mind,"  I  said,  "if  I  give  you 
my  view  —  my  common  country  view  of  the 
political  situation.  I  am  sure  I  don't  under- 
stand, and  I  don't  think  my  neighbours  here 


218  ADVENTURES  IN 

understand,  much  about  the  tariff  or  the 
trusts  or  the  railroad  question  —  in  detail. 
We  get  general  impressions  - —  and  stick  to 
them  like  grim  death  —  for  we  know  somehow 
that  we  are  right.  Generally  speaking,  we 
here  in  the  country  work  for  what  we  get '' 

"And  sometimes  put  the  big  apples  at  the 
top  of  the  barrel,"  nodded  Mr.  Caldwell. 

"And  sometimes  put  too  much  salt  on 
top  of  the  butter,"  I  added — -  "all  that,  but 
on  the  whole  we  get  only  what  we  earn  by 
the  hard  daily  work  of  ploughing  and  plant- 
ing and  reaping:     You  admit  that." 

"I  admit  it,"  said  Mr.  Caldwell. 

"And  we've  got  the  impression  that  a  good 
many  of  the  men  down  in  New  York  and  Bos- 
ton, and  elsewhere,  through  the  advantages 
which  the  tariff  laws,  and  other  laws,  are 
giving  them,  are  getting  more  than  they  earn 
—  a  lot  more.  And  we  feel  that  laws  must 
be  passed  which  will  prevent  all  that.': 

"Now,  I  believe  that,  too,':  said  Mr. 
Caldwell  very  earnestly. 

"Then  we  belong  to  the  same  party,'1  I 
said.  "I  don't  know  what  the  name  of  it 
is  yet,  but  we  both  belong  to  it." 

Mr.  Caldwell  laughed. 


FRIENDSHIP  219 

"And  I'll  appoint  you,"  I  said  "my  agent 
in  Washington  to  work  out  the  changes  in  the 
laws." 

"Well,  I'll  accept  the  appointment,'1  said 
Mr.  Caldwell  —  continuing  very  earnestly, 
"if  you'll  trust  to  my  honesty  and  not  expect 
too  much  of  me  all  at  once." 

With  that  we  both  sat  back  in  our  chairs 
and  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed  with 
the  greatest  good  humour  and  common 
understanding. 

"And  now,"  said  I,  rising  quickly,  "let's  go 
and  get  a  drink  of  buttermilk." 

So  we  walked  around  the  house  arm  in  arm 
and  stopped  in  the  shade  of  the  oak  tree 
which  stands  near  the  spring-house.  Harriet 
came .  out  in  the  whitest  of  white  dresses, 
carrying  a  tray  with  the  glasses,  and  I  opened 
the  door  of  the  spring-house,  and  felt  the  cool 
air  on  my  face  and  smelt  the  good  smell  of 
butter  and  milk  and  cottage  cheese,  and  I 
passed  the  cool  pitcher  to  Harriet.  And  so 
we  drank  together  there  in  the  shade  and 
talked  and  laughed. 

I  walked  down  with  Mr.  Caldwell  to  the 
gate.     He  took  my  arm  and  said  to  me: 

"I'm  glad  I  came  out  here  and  had  this 


220  ADVENTURES  IN 

talk.  I  feel  as  though  I  understood  my 
job  better  for  it." 

"Let's  organize  a  new  party,'1  I  said, 
"let's  begin  with  two  members,  you  and  I, 
and  have  only  one  plank  in  the  platform.'2 

He  smiled. 

"You'd  have  to  crowd  a  good  deal  into 
that  one  plank,"  he  said. 

"Not  at  all,"  I  responded. 
*  "What  would  you  have  it?" 

"I'd  have  it  in  one  sentence,"  I  said,  "and 
something  like  this:  We  believe  in  the  pas- 
sage of  legislation  which  shall  prevent  any 
man  taking  from  the  common  store  any  more 
than  he  actually  earns." 

Mr.  Caldwell  threw  up  his  arms. 

"Mr.  Grayson,"  he  said,  "you're  an  out- 
rageous idealist." 

"Mr.  Caldwell,"  I  said,  "you'll  say  one  of 
these  days  that  I'm  a  practical  politician.'1 

!  "Well,  Harriet,"  I  said,  "he's  got  my  vote." 
'  "Well,  David,"  said  Harriet,  "that's  what 
he  came  for." 

"It's   an    interesting    world,    Harriet,"    I 
said. 
•   "It  is,  indeed,"  said  Harriet. 


FRIENDSHIP 


221 


As  we  stood  on  the  porch  we  could  see  at 
the  top  of  the  hill,  where  the  town  road  crosses 
it,  the  slow  moving  buggy,  and  through  the 
open  curtain  at  the  back  the  heavy  form  of 
our  Congressman  with  his  slouch  hat  set 
firmly  on  his  big  head. 

"We  may  be  fooled,  Harriet,"  I  observed, 
"on  dogmas  and  doctrines  and  platforms  — 
but  if  we  cannot  trust  human  nature  in  the 
long  run,  what  hope  is  there?  It's  men  we 
must  work  with,  Harriet." 

"And  women,"  said  Harriet. 

"And  women,  of  course,'1  said  I. 


ON   FRIENDSHIP 


XIII 


ON  FRIENDSHIP 

I  COME  now  to  the  last  of  these  Adventures 
in  Friendship.  As  I  go  out  —  I  hope 
not  for  long  —  I  wish  you  might  follow  me 
to  the  door,  and  then  as  we  continue  to  talk 
quietly,  I  may  beguile  you,  all  unconsciously, 
to  the  top  of  the  steps,  or  even  find  you  at 
my  side  when  we  reach  the  gate  at  the  end 
of  the  lane.  I  wish  you  might  hate  to  let 
me  go,  as  I  myself  hate  to  go!  —  And  when 
I  reach  the  top  of  the  hill  (if  you  wait  long 
enough)  you  will  see  me  turn  and  wave  my 

225 


226  ADVENTURES  IN 

hand;  and  you  will  know  that  I  am  still 
relishing  the  joy  of  our  meeting,  and  that  I 
part  unwillingly. 

Not  long  ago,  a  friend  of  mine  wrote  a 
letter  asking  me  an  absurdly  difficult  question 
—  difficult  because  so  direct  and  simple. 

"What  is  friendship,  anyway?'  queried 
this   philosophical   correspondent. 

The  truth  is,  the  question  came  to  me  with 
a  shock,  as  something  quite  new.  For  I 
have  spent  so  much  time  thinking  of  my 
friends  that  I  have  scarcely  ever  stopped  to 
reflect  upon  the  abstract  quality  of  friend- 
ship. My  attention  being  thus  called  to  the 
subject,  I  fell  to  thinking  of  it  the  other  night 
as  I  sat  by  the  fire,  Harriet  not  far  away 
rocking  and  sewing,  and  my  dog  sleeping 
on  the  rug  near  me  (his  tail  stirring  whenever 
I  made  a  motion  to  leave  my  place).  And 
whether  I  would  or  no  my  friends  came 
trooping  into  my  mind.  I  thought  of  our 
neighbour  Horace,  the  dryly  practical  and 
sufficient  farmer,  and  of  our  much  loved 
Scotch  Preacher;  I  thought  of  the  Shy  Bee- 
man  and  of  his  boisterous  double,  the  Bold 
Bee-man;  I  thought  of  the  Old  Maid,  and  how 
>he  talks,  for  all  the  world  like  a  rabbit  running 


FRIENDSHIP  227 

in  a  furrow  (all  on  the  same  line  until  you 
startle  her  out,  when  she  slips   quickly  into 
the    next    furrow    and    goes    on    running    as 
ardently     as     before).     And     I     thought    of 
John  Starkweather,  our  rich  man;  and  of  the) 
life  of  the  girl  Anna.     And    it   was   good   to 
think  of  them  all  living  around  me,  not  far 
away,  connected    with  me   through  darkness 
and   space   by   a    certain   mysterious   human 
cord.      (Oh,    there    are     mysteries     still     left 
upon   this   scientific   earth!)     As   I   sat  there 
by   the   fire   I   told   them   over  one   by  one, 
remembering    with     warmth    or     amusement 
or  concern  this  or  that  characteristic  thing 
about  each  of  them.     It  was  the  next  *best 
thing  to  hearing  the  tramp  of  feet  on   my 
porch,   to  seeing  the  door  fly  open   (letting 
in  a  gust  of  the  fresh  cool  air!),   to  crying 
a  hearty  greeting,  to  drawing  up  an  easy  chair 
to  the  open  fire,  to  watching  with  eagerness 
while    my    friend    unwraps     (exclaiming    all 
the  while  of  the  state  of  the  weather:  "Cold, 
Grayson,  mighty  cold!  ")  and  finally  sits  down 
beside  me,  not  too  far  away. 

The  truth  is,  —  my  philosophical  corres- 
pondent —  I  cannot  formulate  any  theory 
of  friendship   which  will   cover   all   the   con- 


228  ADVENTURES  IN 

ditions.  I  know  a  few  things  that  friend- 
ship is  not,  and  a  few  things  that  it  is,  but 
when  I  come  to  generalize  upon  the  abstract 
quality  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  for  adequate 
language. 

Friendship,  it  seems  to  me,  is  like  happi- 
ness. She  flies  pursuit,  she  is  shy,  and  wild, 
and  timid,  and  will  be  best  wooed  by  indirec- 
tion. Quite  unexpectedly,  sometimes,  as  we 
pass  in  the  open  road,  she  puts  her  hand  in 
ours,  like  a  child.  Friendship  is  neither  a  for- 
mality nor  a  mode:  it  is  rather  a  life.  Many 
and  many  a  time  I  have  seen  Charles  Baxter  at 
work  in  his  carpentry-shop  —  just  working, 
or  talking  in  his  quiet  voice,  or  looking 
around  occasionally  through  his  steel-bowed 
spectacles,  and  I  have  had  the  feeling  that 
I  should  like  to  go  over  and  sit  on  the  bench 
near  him.  He  literally  talks  me  over!  I 
even  want  to  touch  him! 

It  is  not  the  substance  of  what  we  say  to 
one  another  that  makes  us  friends,  nor  yet 
the  manner  of  saying  it,  nor  is  it  what  you 
do  or  I  do,  nor  is  it  what  I  give  you,  or  you 
give  me,  nor  is  it  because  we  chance  to  belong 
to  the  same  church,  or  society  or  party  that 
makes   us   friendly.     Nor   is    it   because   we 


FRIENDSHIP  229 

entertain  the  same  views  or  respond  to  the 
same  emotions.  All  these  things  may  serve 
to  bring  us  nearer  together  but  no  one  of 
them  can  of  itself  kindle  the  divine  fire  of 
friendship.  A  friend  is  one  with  whom  we 
are  fond  of  being  when  no  business  is 
afoot  nor  any  entertainment  contemplated. 
A  man  may  well  be  silent  with  a  friend.  "I 
do  not  need  to  ask  the  wounded  person  how 
he  feels,"  says  the  poet,  "I  myself  became 
the  wounded  person." 

Not  all  people  come  to  friendship  in  the 
same  way.  Some  possess  a  ventage  genius 
for  intimacy  and  will  be  making  a  dozen 
friends  where  I  make  one.  Our  Scotch 
Preacher  is  such  a  person.  I  never  knew  any 
man  with  a  gift  of  intimacy  so  persuasive 
as  his.  He  is  so  simple  and  direct  that 
he  cuts  through  the  stoniest  reserve  and 
strikes  at  once  upon  those  personal  things 
which  with  all  of  us  are  so  far  more  real 
than  any  outward  interest.  "Good-morning, 
friend,"  I  have  heard  him  say  to  a  total 
stranger,  and  within  half  an  hour  they  had 
their  heads  together  and  were  talking  of 
things  which  make  men  cry.  It  is  an  extra- 
ordinary gift. 


230  ADVENTURES  IN 

As  for  m^,  I  confess  it  to  be  a  selfish  inter- 
est or  curiosity  which  causes  me  to  stop  almost 
any  man  by  the  way,  and  to  take  something 
of  what  he  has  —  because  it  pleases  me  to 
do  so.  I  try  to  pay  in  coin  as  good  as  I  get, 
but  I  recognize  it  as  a  lawless  procedure. 
For  the  coin  I  give  (being  such  as  I  myself 
secretly  make)  is  for  them  sometimes  only 
spurious  metal,  while  what  I  get  is  for  me 
the  very  treasure  of  the  Indies.  For  a  lift 
in  my  wagon,  a  drink  at  the  door,  a  flying 
word  across  my  fences,  I  have  taken  argosjjss 
of  minted  wealth! 

Especially  do  I  enjoy  all  travelling  people. 
I  wait  for  them  (how  eagerly)  here  on  my 
farm.  I  watch  the  world  drift  by  in  daily 
tides  upon  the  road,  flowing  outward  in  the 
morning  toward  the  town,  and  as  surely 
at  evening  drifting  back  again.  I  look  out 
with  a  pleasure  impossible  to  convey  upon 
those  who  come  this  way  from  the  town :  the 
Syrian  woman  going  by  in  the  gray  town  road, 
with  her  bright-coloured  head-dress,  and  her 
oil-cloth  pack;  and  the  Old-ironman  with  his 
dusty  wagon,  jangling  his  little  bells,  and  the 
cheerful  weazened  Herb-doctor  in  his  faded 
hat,  and  the  Signman  with  his  mouth  full  of 


FRIENDSHIP  231 

nails  —  how  they  are  all  marked  upon  by  the 
town,  all  dusted  with  the  rosy  bloom  of  human 
experience.  How  often  in  fancy  I  have 
pursued  them  down  the  valley  and  watched 
them  until  they  drifted  out  of  sight  beyond 
the  hill!  Or  how  often  I  have  stopped  them 
or  they  (too  willingly)  have  stopped  me  — 
and  we  have  fenced  and  parried  with  fine 
bold  words. 

If  you  should  ever  come  by  my  farm  — 
you,  whoever  you  are  —  take  care  lest  I 
board  you,  hoist  my  pirate  flag,  and  sail 
you  away  to  the  Enchanted  Isle  where  I 
make  my  rendezvous, 

It  is  not  short  of  miraculous  how,  with 
cultivation,  one's  capacity  for  friendship 
increases.  Once  I  myself  had  scarcely  room 
in  my  heart  for  a  single  friend,  who  am  now 
so  wealthy  in  friendships.  It  is  a  phenome- 
non worthy  of  consideration  by  all  hardened 
disbelievers  in  that  which  is  miraculous 
upon  this  earth  that  when  a  man's  heart  really 
opens  to  a  friend  he  finds  there  room  for  two. 
And  when  he  takes  in  the  second,  behold 
the  skies  lift,  and  the  earth  grows  wider,  and 
he  finds  there  room  for  two  more! 

In  a  curious  passage  (which  I  understand 


232  ADVENTURES  IN   FRIENDSHIP 

no  longer  darkly)  old  mystical  Swedenborg 
tells  of  his  wonderment  that  the  world  of 
spirits  (which  he  says  he  visited  so  familiarly) 
should  not  soon  become  too  small  for  all  the 
swelling  hosts  of  its  ethereal  inhabitants, 
and  was  confronted  with  the  discovery  that 
the  more  angels  there  were,  the  more  heaven 
to  hold  them! 

So  let  it  be  with  our  friendships! 

THE    END 


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